Belle Teal (12 page)

Those tins, we collect them all year long. At Christmastime we save the ones that arrive at our house with cookies and candied nuts and things in them. And anytime we go for a long drive in the countryside we scour the shelves of junk shops and what Gran calls anteeky stores. We find little tins and big ones, tins shaped like squares and octagons and rectangles and ovals, and tins with all manner of pictures on them — funny-looking old-fashioned children with angel wings and enormous eyes, glorious Christmas trees lit with candles, country cottages by vegetable gardens that put ours to shame. My favorite tin, it was one I found last year, and it showed all these dogs sitting at a table playing cards. I asked Gran if we couldn't put our own fruitcake in it, just so's I could look at the dogs for another year.

One night in November, directly between Halloween and Thanksgiving, I finish my homework, and me and Gran and Mama decide to sit in the parlor by the fire together for a while. Mama, she has just taken some big tests and she has a night off from school.

“Got all A's,” she tells us. “Never did that before in my life.”

“Mama, that's wonderful!” I exclaim.

“Thank you, precious.” Mama lets out a stream of smoke and Gran gives her the eye.

“Mama, where we going to have Thanksgiving this year?”

“Right here. I promised Cousin Tic and them that we'd have the dinner this time.”

Goody. All our cousins from Penny County.

“Thanksgiving, then fruitcakes,” I say. My mouth is watering at the thought of all that wonderful food. First our turkey and biscuits and gravy and sweet potato pie and Cousin March's sausage stuffing and Cousin Carrie's berry pies plus Gran's pecan pie. The next day, the fruitcakes with all their glorious ingredients.

“We better start a list,” I say. I get up for a pencil and a piece of paper.

“A list of what?” asks Mama.

“Who we're going to make fruitcakes for.”

I begin to write: the Bakers, Miss Casey, Bernette, Miss Wanda, a little one for Little Boss. “Mama, who you want on the list? Anyone new from school?”

Mama sighs, thinking. She stubs out a cigarette and lights up another.

“Merchant, put that pipe out,” says Gran. “It's a filthy thing.”

Now Merchant is Mama's daddy who left Gran about twenty years ago and then turned up dead in the Foggy River.

“It's a
cigarette,
and I just lit it,” says Mama sharply. “I'm not going to put it out now.” She is very tired, I can tell. I notice, though, that she doesn't correct Gran on her biggest mistake. Mama puffs away. Then she says more soft-like, “I don't know how I'm going to be able to help you all with the fruitcakes this year.” She says this like a confession. “I'll have Thanksgiving day off, of course, and I might get one other day off, but Mr. Titus isn't sure. If I do get another day off, it better be the one before Thanksgiving so's I can help cook. But the fruitcakes . . .”

“Don't worry, Mama,” I say. “Gran and I can take care of things. We can cook the meal and . . .” I trail off as Gran gets up and wanders out of the room. “And we can make the fruitcakes too.”

I am not certain about this, though. Especially not when Gran comes back into the parlor wearing that flimsy nightie of hers, and nothing else. Outside, it's freezing. Inside, it's freezing too, unless you're in the kitchen or within five feet of the parlor fire. These days the grass crackles with frost every morning and the wind whips around the corners of our house. And Gran is wearing her short cotton nightie and bare feet.

“I believe I'll make myself a sandwich,” she says.

We finished dinner no more than an hour ago.

I look at Mama. She looks at me. Then she shakes her head ever so slightly and picks up her cigarette again.

 

I am scared about Gran, but the next day Miss Casey takes my mind off of things. As soon as she has taken attendance and written down our lunch and milk orders and all, she says, “Girls and boys, it is time to talk about our school Christmas program.”

I feel a great joy. To my mind the Christmas program is the highlight of the school year, maybe even of the whole entire year. Every class in Coker Creek Elementary takes part in it, and all the parents and grandparents and little brothers and sisters and even some aunts and uncles and neighbors go to it. Last year our class wrote Christmas poems and read them aloud. The year before, we sang two Christmas carols, and also a Christmas song that we wrote ourselves. The program starts off with the songs and poems and readings, and leads up to the very best part, which is the Christmas pageant itself. Each year, one class is chosen by a drawing (out of a felt hat in the teachers' room, I think) to put on the pageant. I have never yet been lucky enough to be in the class that gets chosen for the pageant, although I am always hopeful. After the pageant everybody, students and guests, traipses into the cafeteria, where a big old Christmas feast is held. We all bring something for it, and it is a sight for sore eyes — pies and cakes and cookies and hams and turkeys and casseroles and biscuits and oh, it's just tables and tables so full of food, it could take your breath away.

Our program, it is almost as good as Christmas day itself. Which is why a murmur of excitement runs through the room now.

Miss Casey is grinning a wide grin. She says, “And I have a wonderful piece of news for you. Our class has been chosen to put on the pageant this year.”

I can barely stop myself from jumping out of my seat and cheering.

“Yes, this is very good news,” Miss Casey goes on, looking at our faces. “It's a great honor. I am sure we are all up to the job. I will assign the roles for the pageant this afternoon. Right after recess.”

Then, since Darryl and HRH Vanessa don't know about our Christmas program, Miss Casey describes it to them. “After the pageant,” she adds, “we have a wonderful party in the cafeteria. Everyone contributes something to it. This year I would like each of you to bring in something that you have made at home, preferably from a cherished family recipe. Take a moment to think about what you might like to bring in and then I will make a list on the board.”

While we think, Miss Casey, she writes “CHRISTMAS FEAST” across the blackboard, and then lists our names in two columns. When she has finished she turns to us. “Junie? I'll start with you.”

“Well, my mama makes molasses cake,” says Junie.

“That's just fine,” Miss Casey replies. She writes “molasses cake” on the board next to Junie's name. Then she calls on Mae.

“Peach pie, with our own preserved peaches,” says Mae proudly.

Miss Casey adds “peach pie” to the list.

As the list grows longer, my mouth begins to water.

“Vanessa?” Miss Casey is saying.

HRH stands up beside her chair and says all hoitytoity, “
I
will bring in my mama's fancy Noel lace cookies. They are French, I believe.” Then she sits down again.

“Lace cookies” is added to the board.

“Darryl? How about you?” asks Miss Casey.

Darryl is looking shyer than ever, like he might be tongue-tied, but he manages to say, “Chocolate-chip cookies.”

Finally it is my turn. “My gran and I will make our fruitcake,” I say.

I hear a faint snicker from Vanessa's side of the room. Let her laugh, I think. I know for a fact that nobody has tasted anything like Gran's recipe. It has been in our family for decades. Plus, over the years Gran has perfected it. She has made so many changes on that dirty, sticky, flour-covered recipe card that the writing is hard to read. But every year Gran deciphers it. And every year the fruitcakes get a little better. They're expensive to make, but somehow we always manage to buy enough ingredients for our large quantity of cakes.

I ignore the snicker and announce, “I guarantee it will be the best fruitcake you will ever eat.”

“I'm sure it will be,” Miss Casey replies kindly.

 

During recess me and Clarice and Darryl are generally left alone. Which is a good thing because we do need to get our writing time in. We have a whole notebook full of
City Lights
episodes now. Today I am scribbling away as Darryl, he is telling me a good idea about a fire in a shoe store, when a shadow falls across the book. I look up. There is Vernon, standing in front of us with his hands in his pockets and a frown in his eyebrows.

“What?” I say, rude-like. I do not feel like being interrupted. Plus, I do not know whether to trust Vernon after the Halloween surprise.

“You,” Vernon says, pointing at Darryl's chest like he is only a can of soup on a store shelf, “do not need to bother bringing in those cookies. No one is going to eat
your
food.”

I leap to my feet but Vernon is not finished. “You're not going to be in the pageant either,” he says. “There's not going to be any part for you. Colored people had nothing to do with the birth of Jesus Christ.”

Very slowly Darryl gets to his feet. “I believe you're wrong about that,” he replies.

But Vernon is already stalking off.

V
ernon doesn't cause any more trouble, and me and Clarice and Darryl go back to Miss Casey's room after recess with a new episode of
City Lights
in our notebook.

We have barely sat down at our desks when Miss Casey, she says, “And now I will assign the parts for the pageant.”

HRH's hand shoots up. “Oh, Miss Casey,” she trills, “aren't we going to try out for the parts?”

“Well, there are no speaking roles,” Miss Casey replies, “except for the narrator. So there is no reason to try out. I have given this some thought, and I have made my choices.”

Miss Casey explains that with nineteen of us in the class she has included a lot of shepherds, some townspeople, and a barnful of animals, so's we can all have parts. She stands before us holding a piece of paper. “Listen carefully,” she says. “I will call out your name, then I will call out the part you will play. If you have any questions, please hold them until I have finished reading the list.”

Miss Casey leads off with the main characters, and the first one is the narrator. Guess what. Clarice gets that part. She is a very good reader and speaker, so that makes sense. The next role is Joseph, which goes to Stephen Haines. After that is Mary. I about faint when I hear Miss Casey say, “Mary: Belle Teal Harper.”

Well.

You could hear a pin drop, I think that everyone, including me, assumed that the role of Mary would go to Vanessa. And frankly, I was hoping to be a rooster, because I have a collection of colorful feathers I can use on my costume. But no, Miss Casey, she clearly pronounced
my
name after she said “Mary.” 

So there is a tiny scuffle in the air of the classroom, but Miss Casey makes like she doesn't hear it and just continues on.

The Three Kings are next. Miss Casey, she says, “Walter Dunney” and “Ray Stomper” for the first two kings. Then she says, “King Gaspar: Darryl Craig.”

Miss Casey pauses for a second or two after she says this, like she expects some sort of noise, even though she told us to hold our questions. Sure enough, a couple of kids cannot contain themselves. I look around and see a lot of open mouths and frowny foreheads. Then Vanessa cries, “Hey!” entirely forgetting that proper ladies always raise their hands. And Vernon, he calls out, “There wasn't any ni — any, um, colored people in the time of Jesus Christ, Miss Casey.”

“Ma'am, he can't have that part,” adds HRH.

“And why not?” replies Miss Casey, looking around at all of us.

“Because of what Vernon just said,” Vanessa answers.

“Well, I am afraid Vernon is wrong.” Miss Casey puts down her list and stands with her arms crossed.

“Okay, maybe there were colored people back then, but they were slaves,” speaks up Mae.

Miss Casey remains calm. “Many people believe,” she says patiently, “that one of the Three Kings was King Gaspar, a dark-skinned man from India or Africa.” She looks around at us a moment longer, then says she won't entertain any more comments or questions, picks her list back up, and continues reading from it. I realize that Miss Casey still hasn't said HRH's name, which means Vanessa is going to get stuck with one of the itty parts. I am fascinated.

Miss Casey doesn't say Vanessa's name until she gets started with the shepherds. I can't help looking over at HRH to see her reaction. She slumps down in her chair. Cast as a shepherd, losing the part of Mary to me, and a colored boy given the role of a king. This is surely a bad day for Vanessa Amy Wynona Mathers.

I find out just how bad when school ends and Clarice and I climb onto our bus.

“Hi, Bernette,” we say.

“Hello, girls.”

I lean into Bernette and whisper, “I'm going to be Mary in the Christmas pageant!”

Bernette grins, showing the spaces where her teeth are missing, and says, “Good for you, honey!”