Spelldown (9 page)

By the time I put the book aside, it’s almost midnight, and James and Celia are cuddled up beside me, sound asleep. I get up and go to the closet to look at the scarlet red coat Mrs. Harrison gave me today. She said she bought it for herself a couple years ago, but it smells brand-new. I put it on and stand in front of the full-length mirror in the hall, looking like Little Miss Riding Hood before she meets the wolf. I twirl around and around, hugging myself. The red satin lining of the hood feels sexy against my face. I hang the coat up and go into the sparkling white bathroom, wash my face, and then dry it with a fluffy purple towel, thinking how wonderful it would be to have a housekeeper like Mrs. Cora.

I whisper “I love you” into the mirror, and then kiss its cool, clean surface. I have never actually kissed anyone’s lips, but in my imagination I’ve kissed hundreds of people: the cute new choir director at church; most of the stock boys at the Winn-Dixie; Ricky Worth, the Red Clover Tornadoes quarterback; and Billy Ray Jenkins. I pretend to kiss famous
people all the time: Joe Namath, of the New York Jets; David Janssen, the poor Fugitive on TV; and, of course, Ringo, by far the most charismatic and kissable of the Fab Four. Sometimes I even pretend I am Mrs. Harrison kissing Mr. Harrison, and vice versa. Mrs. Harrison likes to nibble on Mr. Harrison’s bottom lip, but Mr. Harrison likes to plunge his tongue into Mrs. Harrison’s mouth after a long, smooth, silky kiss.

As I finish brushing my teeth, I see the Harrisons tiptoe by in the hall. They don’t see me, so I follow them into my bedroom and help them pull the covers off the kids. Mr. Harrison picks up James, and Mrs. Harrison, Celia, and they carry them to their rooms. I get into bed and start looking at the art book again.

After a while I hear water filling their bathtub. I go back to my bathroom, sit on the toilet lid, and put my ear to the wall. Someone’s gargling. Mrs. Harrison oohs and aahs as she lowers herself into the water. Now, they’re talking. I picture Mr. Harrison sitting backward on the blue velvet vanity chair talking to his wife. Holy Mother, they’re discussing me! I can’t make out everything they say because she’s splashing around in the water, but I can hear certain of Mr. Harrison’s words.
Alcoholic. Loom fixer. Three needy children at home. Decent, hardworking mother
. Then Mrs. Harrison’s saying things about
poor Karlene … Funny. Sweet. Brilliant. Lonely. Confused. Most ambitious child God ever made
. But Mrs. Harrison’s voice has that same hand-wringing sound as Mama’s and makes me feel like poor Eleanor Rigby picking up rice in a church where a wedding has been. I feel horrified
by how tragic my story sounds coming from their lips. They quit talking for a while and I imagine Mr. Harrison washing her back with a fluffy bath cloth and lavender soap to soothe her. I close my eyes, listening to the silence, and think about how some words ought to be spelled with triple letters. Words like
terrrible
and
flabbbergasted
and
innnocent
.

Mrs. Harrison is talking again, so I listen closely. “No matter how smart she is, her dreams can only take her so far. Her home life is a mess. What if she loses the state spelling bee, Jack? What in God’s name will she do?”

“She would come up with a new dream,” Mr. Harrison says, “and we’d help her. Now come on, let’s go to bed.”

I stand up and look at the girl in the mirror, with droopy blue eyes and clenched jaws. What do the Harrisons know about the Bridges family, anyway? Nothing. Maybe Mr. Harrison has been nosying around the mill, asking the boss men about Mama and Daddy. But nobody really understands how hard Daddy’s trying to be good. They don’t know he hasn’t had a drop to drink in four weeks. Mrs. Harrison is full of rotten baloney. Telling me
Sapere aude, sapere aude, sapere aude
. And I believed her—I am daring to be wise, I am studying my butt off—but, deep inside, she thinks I am
dooomed
. I don’t need anybody’s sympathy. I am the spelling champion of Shirley County. In January I will become the spelling champion of South Carolina. And then in May I’ll march into Washington, D.C., and win the spelling championship of the United States of America. Who knows? I might even become the spelling champion of the whole goddamn world.
I trudge back to bed, but my heart feels restless and I flop around on the bed, biting my fingernails. An image of me and Billy Ray standing on the ledge of the bridge comes into my head, and I relax. The sun is pure gold. The breeze ruffles my hair. We’re holding hands, admiring the sun sinking into the reservoir. I wonder how he really feels about me. What he thinks of me being so ornery and smart-alecky all the time. He talks like a prophet and never judges anyone, even though he has to live with two drunk parents. He’s probably going to be a famous preacher like Billy Graham one day. It’s silly to have these romantic thoughts about him, because it’s obvious he’s God’s boy. But when it comes to Billy Ray Jenkins, my imagination gets diarrhea.

Mrs. Harrison knocks, and then comes in and sits on the bed. “Hey, champ,” she says, gently pushing my bangs aside. The feel of her fingers on my forehead makes my anger float up to heaven. She tells me all about Mayor Melton’s shindig and asks me about what we did and how the kids behaved. She notices the art book on the nightstand and starts talking about Marc Chagall this and Marc Chagall that. Then she plumps up a pillow beside me and we look at the village picture. “Look, it’s a girl milking a billy goat! I wonder why he painted it there on the lamb’s cheek?”

“I don’t think that’s a billy goat,” I say.

“You don’t?”

“No ma’am. Billy goats don’t have udders,” I say without cracking a smile.

She leans over and starts tickling me under my arms. I
break out in wild giggles and try to push her away. But she holds on and we tumble across the bed until we roll off and hit the soft green carpet. After we untangle ourselves, we lie there laughing our butts off. Finally, we settle down and I hop into bed.

She tucks me in and kisses my forehead. “Sweet dreams, Jelly Bean.”

“Good night, Your Craziness,” I say.

“Light off?” she says, her finger on the lamp switch.

“No, thanks. I want to look at a few more paintings.”

She walks away, but the musky smell of her perfume lingers. I pick up the book and turn back to the magical village. There is something peculiar about the milkmaid. One of her hands appears to be tied behind her back.

1: loss of stability: being out of balance

2: loss of emotional or intellectual poise

On Sunday night at Training Union, Mrs. Shehane is handing out pieces of orange construction paper for us to take home and illustrate this week’s Bible verse. She starts to hand me a sheet, but I hold up my index finger with two Band-Aids wrapped around it. “I cut it with a knife,” I say, which is a lie. I bit my fingernail to the quick and it hurts like hell.

“Ooh, I hope it gets better.” The phony honey drips off her words.

I still can’t believe how Mrs. Shehane and all those other stuck-up church members treated the whole family this morning after Preacher Smoot announced my Spelldown victory and invited us to stand in front of the congregation. Usually, people at church pity us. But as the members of the congregation shook our hands and congratulated us, Preacher Smoot beamed as if we had been cured of leprosy.

Mrs. Shehane starts harping about how we are all supposed to practice every single day for next week’s big Bible Drill. If I had been in charge of publishing the Bible, I would have arranged the books alphabetically. It’s hard as hell to remember where everything is. Every night, Mama calls
out five different Bible verses so I can practice finding them. Not because I think God is clocking me with a stopwatch—I just love to win.

Finally, the bell rings, signifying it’s time for preaching. I put on my red coat and run down the steps of the education building. It’s freezing and smells like it’s going to snow, so I pull the hood of my new coat around me and walk toward the front of the church, looking for Daddy. Since the camping debacle, he’s been coming with us to morning and evening services on Sundays. But Mama stayed home with the twins tonight. She’s not herself lately. Gloria Jean says Mama is going through the change, which is like going through puberty backward.

I find Daddy sucking on a Camel in front of the sanctuary. He looks tuckered out from being good.

“Hey, I’m going to sit in the balcony,” I say.

“You know your mama don’t allow that,” he says, pretending to be stern.

“Please, I promise I’ll be real quiet. No one will even know I’m up there.”

“Go ahead, skedaddle,” he says with a smile, but he’s acting fidgety as if a drunk is trying to crawl out of his skin.

The vestibule is empty, so I sneak through the door that leads to the balcony. As I climb the dark, creaky staircase, I count each of the fourteen steps so I won’t be afraid. Ever since I was little, I’ve had nightmares about climbing these stairs. But in the dream I’m naked, and the stairs become narrower and go on forever, until I’m standing on tiptoe on
the tiniest step to Nowhere. And when I wake up, I’m always exhausted.

I sit on the front pew in the dark balcony and listen as Mr. Carnes gives the attendance report. One hundred and eighteen people showed up tonight. I hope the sermon is short and punchy. Sometimes on Sunday nights Preacher Smoot leaves out the fifteen minutes of begging at the end of the sermon, neglecting to mention that the unsaved might die on the way home and wake up in
h-e-l-l
. Thank God we aren’t scheduled to eat Jesus’ flesh or drink his blood—that always takes an eternity or two.

The congregation is singing “Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus.” I know this one by heart. It sounds like a march and funeral song put together. I join in on the third verse. “Turn your eyes upon Jesus, look full in his wonderful face, and the things of earth will grow strangely dim in the light of his glory and grace, in the light of his glory and grace.”

Then Preacher Smoot starts telling the story about Paul getting zapped by a magical light on the road to Damascus. I’m not in the mood for one of those zapped-by-God stories. I decide to work on my Latin. I take a church bulletin and a pencil from the pew, and on the back of the budget I write down some of my favorite phrases and their meanings:

filius nullius—
a bastard

Via Crucis—
the Way of the Cross

Via Lactea—
the Milky Way

Via Dolorosa—
the Way of Sorrow

theatrum mundi—
theater of the world

quaere verum—
seek the truth

natale solum—
native soil

nascentes morimur—
from the moment we are born, we die

veni, vidi, vici—
I came, I saw, I conquered

The last one is the motto of Karlene the Conquereri Veni, vidi, vici.

Finally, Preacher Smoot stops preaching and gives all sinners a chance to get saved. As the congregation sings the first verse of “Just As I Am,” I slip down the stairs and walk to our old gray station wagon parked out front on the shoulder of the highway. In the moonlight it looks like a sleeping elephant. I jump into the front seat, hoping I won’t have to wait long.

I look out at the strange intersection of Highway 200 and High Street, and feel as if I’m seeing it through fresh eyes. Everything looks so vivid and colorful. So Full of Life. Across from the drive-in theater, the Jiffy Grill is hopping like it’s Saturday night. Hoodlum boys sit in shiny cars with their teased-hair girlfriends, eating cheeseburgers and fried onion rings.

On the opposite corner from the Jiffy is Red Clover Toyland, which has a giant toy soldier sign out front. All my life, that toy soldier has stood at attention and saluted me every time I pass. The soldier’s uniform used to be bright royal blue and the plume on his helmet was deep purple, but now the colors are faded. The white signpost that holds the
soldier up used to be a measuring stick for Red Cloverians to mark the height of their children. Mama measured me several times, but a few years ago, the toy store closed, and people quit measuring their kids.

There’s a knock on my window. Billy Ray is standing outside with his Brownie camera around his neck. I roll down the window and the flashbulb explodes. “Hey—you trying to blind me?”

“No, just wanted to get a picture of the Shirley County Spelling Champion,” he says, looking handsome in his Red Clover Junior High letter jacket. “Sorry I couldn’t make it to the Spelldown. I had to work.”

“That’s okay. You been to Freewill?”

“Yeah. I had to give the sermon tonight for Youth Sunday. Granddaddy’s still trying to talk me into becoming a preacher.”

“It sure is weird what some people want,” I say.

“Yes, it is, but I don’t plan on being a preacher, or staying in Red Clover. I’m going to college or join the navy or Peace Corps or something,” Billy Ray says in a dreamy voice.

“Send me a postcard.” I roll my eyes.

“You’re in a fine mood.”

“I’m sorry. It just gripes me how people always talk about leaving Red Clover but never do.”

“Well, we’ll make it out of here, someway, somehow.” Billy Ray smiles.

“You know what? You are absolutely right, Billy Ray Jenkins!”
A sad puppy-dog smile flitters across his face. “Daddy shot up the trailer and took off again.”

“Shot up the trailer! What in the world is wrong with—”

“Sheriff will find him. Always does,” he says. “But I’d prefer not to discuss it if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind at all.” I take his hand and squeeze it. He squeezes back.

“I gotta get home, anyway. Tell your mama I said hey.” He walks away.

A few minutes later Daddy jumps into the car. “Was that Billy Ray?”

“Yes, sir.”

He flashes the headlights and drives the car up the shoulder of the road until he reaches Billy Ray. I roll down my window and Daddy leans over and says, “How about a ride, son?”

“That’s okay, Mr. Bridges. I don’t mind walking. It’s out of your way.”