Playing With Matches (5 page)

“Which beat?” I said.

“You don’t hear that music goin’ on inside you, girl?”

“You mean—in my head?”

I heard plenty of things—story ideas and clever ways to say stuff, words I’d read in a book. “I guess I could tell a joke,” I said. “I know this one about a horse and a piece of string.…”

Claudie handed me my half of the stick. “Hold it up to your mouth, like this, and say somethin’. Go on, now.”

So I did, and we spent a while with her belting out songs and me yammering into a stick, saying memorized things like “ ’Twas on the good ship
Hesperus
that sailed the stormy sea …’ ” and “For unto us a child is born” and “The war in Switzerland is ended, and now American troops are expected to …”

Claudie held up her hand. “They’s a war?” she said.

“There’s always a war. I’m like a radio announcer. Auntie said when she was a kid, they used to watch these newsreels before a movie, and—”

“I ain’t ever been to a movie,” Claudie said. “So stop your showin’ off. Say something folks can understand. An’ make it about me.”

“Okay.” I put on a haughty air. “Miss Maytubby from Atlanta, will you pass us the pork chops and the chutney, do you mind?”

Claudie’s face was pure annoyance. “I ain’t from Atlanta, and I ain’t ever the hell had pork chops either.”

My jaw fell slack. “You’ve never had pork chops? Ham? Sweet potatoes?”

“I had sweet-tater pie,” she said. “Come to think on it, I never see y’all walkin’ down to the highway for free cheese or beans. Y’all must be rich.”

“We aren’t rich,” I said. But it stuck in my mind to ask Auntie later. “Aunt Jerusha made a bunch of money in the chicken circus,” I said grandly. “Enough to live on for the rest of our lives.”

“Anyway, you’re s’posed to introduce me first thing.”

“I’ll be the master of ceremonies.”

“Yeah,” Claudie said. “That. And you can sing along sometimes.”

“How many songs are we gonna do?”

“Three or four,” she said. “Enough to make it worth five cents.”

“Right.” I nodded. This whole thing was beginning to seem better now, and I was counting up the people we might invite—Aunt Jerusha, Uncle Cunny and his friends, the Hazzletons, the Oaty brothers. Miz Maytubby and Alvadene.

“We’ll ask the Sherrards and their sister-in-law, Miss Minnie Roosevelt,” I said.

I wondered about Miss Shookie and old Bitsy, and if Reverend Ollie would come—and what about Miz Millicent Poole? Nobody liked that crazy woman with her wild red hair and white scalp showing through. Her dresses hung uneven, and her eyes were red-rimmed. Oft times her nose was dripping, and she made no move to wipe it. Knowing Miz Millicent, she might take it on herself to collect our money. It had come to me recently that she and my mother and I were the only white people on Potato Shed Road.

“Let’s do this on Saturday night,” I said. “At six o’clock. We can sing and dance on our back porch and put chairs in the yard for the audience.”

Claudie grinned, her big white teeth shining. “Now you’re gettin’ it, girl,” she said. “Let’s start with ‘Rock Around the Clock,’ I do that real good.”

And she did. I was dumbfounded. For somebody who lived, as Miss Shookie said, in the lap of poverty, Claudie knew all the words, and the melodies too. She had the moves down perfect, the jiving and juking, and her feet pounded and ground the dirt while the top of her twisted separate from the bottom. It was better than what we did in church, even with our hand-waving and shouting
Amen
.

I stood there with a silly grin on my face, but then Claudie gave me a shove, and I took a shuffling step and then another and slung my skinny hips and tried swiveling them, and before long, I had it down. I wasn’t as smooth as Claudie, though, because somehow the moving seemed part of her—like music was in her the way words were inside me.

It seemed, that afternoon, we were a kind of
temple
, and I wondered at that new strange word that had bloomed in my head.

On Friday, we tired of rehearsing and went off to wade in the green shallows of the river and make a plan to visit all our neighbors first thing in the morning, inviting them for that evening, lemonade served. It was suppertime just now, and I asked Claudie in, but she glanced over at Plain Genie, who was sitting on the bank, sucking her thumb, and Claudie said no, she and Genie would be gettin’ on home.

I went in to eat and to tell Auntie the plan and that I needed drinks enough to serve all the people who might show up tomorrow night.

“And who’s gonna pay for the lemons?” she asked.

“Don’t we have some in the refrigerator?”

“We do not, and even if we did, child, you embarkin’ on free enterprise, and you’d owe me for them lemons, you understand?”

“No, ma’am.”

It was just Auntie and me tonight, Uncle Cunny off playing Friday-night poker.

“Cunny taught you to count out money,” she said. “Tomorrow you go on over to the Tiger Market and buy six lemons. I’ll front you the price. But you owe me what they cost, and you’ll give it back.”

I would split the nickels with Claudie, all right, but I was not about to take out the cost of lemons.

“And you do it before you girls share a penny. That way you’ll both be paid equal.”

“But, Auntie—”

“No, ma’am,” she said, her feet planted in front of the stove. “That’s how it will be, or it won’t be at all.”

To save my life, I couldn’t make myself subtract the price of the lemons. Subtraction was unkind. Taking things away hurt something fierce, and I couldn’t think why they’d teach such a thing in school.

I had an idea. I kept seventy-five cents upstairs in a sock, under my bed, and I would take that sock with me to the market tomorrow. Then, when we collected admission, Claudie would just have to give me half the price of the fruit. Everybody knew they lived off food stamps and ate beans every day. Not one of them owned shoes till they went to school, and their clothes came from the donation box behind the Oasis of Love Bingo Hall and Prison Camp Center.

Saturday evening was surprisingly cool. Uncle helped us line up chairs, and near six o’clock he drove down to the Maytubbys’. When he came back, he opened the door and helped Miz Maytubby and Alvadene down. A whole pile of Maytubby kids spilled out of the back. Then Uncle came to where I was standing with a cigar box, sometimes shaking it just to hear the coins rattle, and he counted his guests and dropped in two quarters. “Miz Maytubby,” he said, “it’d please me mightily to help you to a seat on the front row.”

I looked over at Plain Genie, and at Alvadene in her tight shorts and her blouse with the sleeves cut out and her bosoms straining against the buttons, and the baby asleep on her arm.

Miz Maytubby, I heard, took to her bed for weeks after Denver showed up with his white-lady wife, and even now, she looked as if she’d come straight from there, in a faded pink duster and barefoot, her hair slept on. In spite of that, she had a lifted and somewhat delicate chin and swipe of pink lipstick across her mouth. Claudie looked proud.

Mr. and Mrs. Sherrard and Miss Minnie Roosevelt came arm in arm, under a tattered parasol, and the brothers Oaty. At the very last minute, Miz Millicent Poole tottered down the road, her legs black and blue. She swayed into a seat. The Best Reverend Ollie paid her way. Auntie went to speak with Miz Millicent, then sat in the back row, Uncle standing, as all the chairs were taken. I was pleased with this turnout.

When everyone was seated, I flounced up on that porch and announced loudly, “Ladies and gentlemen, come one, come all—to the greatest show in False River! Starring me and Claudie Maytubby, who arranged
all
the dancing.”

Then I looked over toward Mama’s house, just to be sure, and was grateful to the core there was no sign of her. The last thing I needed was her stumbling over here in her boa and high heels, creating a scene.

“I’m pleased to present us both in our opening number, ‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.’ ” With that, we snatched up our make-believe microphones, which made some laugh, and launched into our number.

“ ‘Ain’t no mountain high enough, ain’t no valley low enough … to keep me away from yooooou …’ ”

On that wood porch, we gyrated and jerked our hips and our thumbs like we were looking to hitchhike clear to Jackson. Everyone clapped, except Miz Millicent.

“Now,” I said when we were catching our breath. “We’re gonna
dance while Miss Maytubby here sings ‘Johnny Jump.’ ” And with that, we fell into swoops and dives and swan-arm gyrations, the great finale being Claudie bending over and me climbing on her ass. My bare feet wiggled up to her shoulders and she held on to my legs. We’d done this stunt a half-hundred times.

But it was then I lifted my eyes and saw my auntie. She’d grown pale of face, clutching air with her hands, and nearly turned over her chair. I lost my balance some, catching before I toppled, and shot a glance toward Mama’s, but she wasn’t outside. It wasn’t that. Auntie was up now, her hand covering her mouth, backing away, Uncle picking up her chair, taking her by the shoulders.

“Jerusha,” I heard him say. “Jerusha—”

Miss Shookie, who sat with Bitsy beside her, wagged her head and said, “Uh-uh-uh.”

With the flat of her hand, Auntie slapped at Uncle, made for the side of the house, and was gone around the corner. Claudie, however, had taken her microphone and was announcing her own next number.

The lemonade, and some sugar cookies Auntie had made, were on the domino table under the willow. Everybody ate standing and went off home, and things would have been fine, except they weren’t. Miss Shookie never said another word. She and Bitsy just got in their Chevy and drove away. In silence, Uncle took all the Maytubbys home. Claudie had a fine, flushed look to her face. I had taken those nickels and divided them evenly—five for her, five for me. The price of the lemons had come out of my sock.

I went straight to bed. I couldn’t bear to question what had happened to Auntie. Whatever it was, I was sure it was my fault.

8

I
t was my birthday, and I wanted only to spend time with Claudie, but nothing could pry her loose from her sister, and anyway, her time was limited. Both girls went to first grade half a day. I, however, was turning six late and would not go to school for another year.

I envied the Maytubbys their big family and the way they all stuck up for one another, with the exception, of course, of Denver’s new wife. But I was jealous of more than strength among the siblings—at one time Claudie
had known her daddy
.

It was with downright stubbornness that I persuaded Claudie to leave Plain Genie long enough to join us for my birthday dinner. No matter that it rained. I took Auntie’s umbrella and went to fetch her, the two of us dancing back, jumping puddles and cowering beneath lightning, then screaming at the great claps of thunder.

In addition to it being a special day, I needed Claudie’s help. I had a plan, and after dinner I would share it with her. It was a great secret and could not involve Plain Genie, who was weak and trembly and prone to tears. I was going to ask Claudie to go down the road with me to spy on the prison. I’d heard terrible
tales of the folks who were kept there—crying out for their families, beaten to the bone, starved and wailing to be spared, and I thoroughly needed to see for myself.

Just now, though, dinner was on the table, and from my side, I lorded over the pork chops with boiled potatoes, candied carrots, and dumplings. I was beside myself—surely Claudie had never seen such a spread. I was anxious for my guest to try everything. Our good manners and a loaded table must be a rare delight for her, and I behaved as though I’d cooked every morsel. Auntie had baked a cake for the occasion. Uncle Cunny was there too, having dropped by in time to lick frosting from the bowl. Tonight he held Auntie’s chair for her and touched her shoulder before he seated himself at the head of the table—things I never saw him do on a Sunday. And the rain came down. It beat on the window over the sink and the big parlor panes.

I was thrilled for Claudie. There were so many people in the Maytubbys’ house, they took turns at the table. I was welcome there, but always seeing the short supply of things—a bowl of boiled peas with no snaps, and a long, thin corn bread—I politely helped myself to a spoonful. Waiting at home, I knew, would be thick slices of bread and butter, and Auntie’s homemade apple butter.

Today, our table was set with Auntie’s best blue dishes.

But when we sat, Claudie went on standing behind her chair. My big and solid Auntie spoke. “Would you like to sit down, Claudie, sugar?”

“She doesn’t get to, at her house,” I said, by way of explaining. “They don’t have enough chairs to go around.”

Claudie looked at the army of bowls on our table, pinched her lips together, pulled out her chair, and perched on its edge like a bird on a wire. Then Uncle asked a blessing, plain and simple.

“Yes, Lord,” Auntie said softly, when he was done. I said, “Amen.” Claudie’s eyes were big, and she said nothing.

“You ever see so much food?” I asked her, heaving a great sigh.