Tiny Dancer (17 page)

My
mind could not stop the swarming, the lights going on and off in my head like the fireflies above the blackened garden. “Bad luck. Bad luck. Flannery Curry is bad luck.”

                                                                            * * * * *

Billy had not dropped by for Saturday pancakes since before the accident. But I did know his habit of practicing at the dance studio early Saturday. I asked him to swing by and pick me up so I could meet Claudia in the village. A new boutique had opened and Claudia was given permission to buy on credit using Irene’s new and empty store account. “Buy Flannery something for school,” she had told Claudia, “to cheer her up.”

When Claudia told me
of Irene’s mission, there was no use in me hiding my frustration over our temporary state of poverty—the Johnsons knew fully about my family’s situation. I could not wait for this awful summer of hardship to be behind us.

Billy dropped me off hurriedly in front of the little dress shop. Perhaps the recent string of circumstances had washed away his memory of me that night on the beach. He didn’t bring it up
, nor did I. But he had always had a knack for timing.

Claudia kept pulling out skirts
and holding them in front of me gasping. The clothes were bright and chic, nothing like the plain clothing at the Five and Dime. I was having trouble getting into the shopping spirit.

I
tried on several skirts. When I found a green embroidered cotton skirt that Claudia seemed to envy the most, I decided on that one. Her tastes were impeccable, like Irene’s. That way, I didn’t have to think too hard.

“You don’t have any use for a skirt like that without a blouse,” said Claudia. She pulled several bl
ouses off the rack and sent me back into the dressing room.

When I
tried on a white cotton blouse, it was miss-sized and too large. I stuck my head out of the curtain to ask Claudia to fetch a smaller size. I spotted her in a decorative chair, her back to me. I was about to call out to her when I noticed her wiping her eyes with a tissue.

“Claudia,” I
hissed under my breath. When Claudia turned around, startled, I asked, “What’s wrong?” Mascara smudged her eyes. She wiped the tears away with the sleeve of her sweater and turned her back to me.

I made my
selections and Claudia signed out on our tickets, also purchasing a dress for herself. We took our shopping bags to the corner diner and found a booth in a rear corner. I placed our coffee orders while Claudia guarded our bags at the table. The waitress said she would be over in a minute. She handed me two mugs.

“I feel terrible, Claudia,”
I said, handing her a coffee mug. “Something’s wrong and here I am lost in my thoughts, no mind to you.” I still had not told her that Vesta was pressing charges against Theo Miller. How could such a travesty come out of my own mouth?

“It’s an awful thing, Flannery. I can’t bring myself to say it,” said Claudia.
There was no hint of pretense in her voice.

“But you need to tell someone. It might as well be me.”

“You can keep a secret,” she said, seemingly grateful.

“Take a deep breath and let it out,”
I said, just as expert as Dorothea herself.

“I don’t know if it’s true mind you, but I have every reason to believe Daddy is cheating on Mother.”

I remembered how terse Claudia had been out on the lake. But she could be dramatic and get her facts in a tangle like the characters in Vesta’s soaps.

“The phone rang one afternoon. You know how when you call I sound like Mother on the phone?”

“Yes,” I said.

“This woman was calling, she said, to say—thinking I was Mother—that Daddy was visiting a dance club outside Raleigh on weekends. One of the dancers there had broken up her marriage. Now she said the woman was seeing my father.”

“It’s a lie,” I said. “Vicious people live to make others as miserable as they are.” Everyone was jealous of the Johnsons. Everyone wanted to be them.

“I know that.”

“Did you tell your mother?”

“No.”

“Don’t, Claudia.”

“But what if it’s true?”

“I mean it. Don’t tell anyone else. I won’t say anything either.”  I was fast to think. I had seen Dwight and Irene together and doubted he would do such a thing.

“But what if he’s carrying on and I could have stopped it?”

“We’ll have to figure out if it’s true. Promise me you won’t say a word to your mother until I’ve thought on things,” I said, making her swear.

She
promised. When Irene came for us, Claudia sat in the front seat looking as if she might explode. I shook my head slightly when she glanced back in misery. Not here, not in front of me.

I mulled a plan after I got home. I would get us
a ride out to the dance club tonight. If Mr. Johnson went there Saturdays, he would be there tonight. If he did not show up, Claudia could rest assured some stranger had called their house trying to cause trouble for the Johnsons. We would have to find a way there and I could not ask Billy to drive us. He would interfere. Claudia would be humiliated. Fortunately Drake Keller had a good car. I was pleased to realize I held recent blackmail power over him.

I
found Drake’s number in the phone book. I called him and told him that I needed a favor.

He had a date with Marcy, he told me. I
was calling too late, at the last minute. He was nervous and stammered.

“
Claudia needs us. This is urgent. You can tell Marcy that you’ll see her tomorrow.”

He
was not happy I was pressuring him.

“
I’ve never told anyone I saw you coming out of the Inn with that blonde. Not even Claudia. I hate to do this, but if you don’t help Claudia, I’ll tell Marcy.”

Drake called me
a scheming little witch. “I’ll tell her you’re lying.”

“
Either pick me up at seven tonight, or we’ll see who Marcy believes.” I gave him a minute to ponder the credibility of our reputations. “Matter of fact, why wait? I’ll call her now.”

Seeing I would not relent, he begged me not to call
Marcy. I was still a bit surprised at how easily I turned him to my way of thinking. “You tell Marcy something’s come up. An emergency. Remind her she can still go to the movies with her friends. They’re all going to see a new movie in town, girls’ night and all that.”

The next part was a bit trickier. I called Claudia and she had to arrange our night out without giving anything away to Irene.

Next I told Vesta about the movie and how everyone was going. She was in such good spirits she slipped a five into my hand.

I walked out of the house two
minutes before Drake pulled up out front.

Claudia was mystified I
had pulled it all off so effortlessly. “You’re a scary girl, Flannery Curry,” she said.

“She’s a blackmailer is wha
t,” said Drake, still mad at me.

Claudia had clipped an ad out of the Yellow Pages to the dance club called “The Gentleman’s Pleasure.”

“That place!” I said, horrified.

“I told you it was bad,” said Claudia.

“What have you two gotten mixed up in?” asked Drake.

                                                                      * * * * *

“None of us are old enough to be admitted,”
I said, realizing our dilemma all too late. I instructed Drake to pull around back. The sun had already gone down during the forty-five minute drive out of Bitterwood Park. “Let’s wait in the parking lot.”

“I’m afraid. If Daddy sees me here, he could blow up,” said Claudia.

“Your old man is here?” said Drake, laughing sarcastically.

“Shut-up, Drake,”
I said. “If he says anything, Claudia, he knows what I’ll do, don’t you, Drake?”

He
was immediately taciturn, no danger to our security.

“If Daddy sees me hanging around this place, he’ll kill me—and you,” said Claudia bitterly.

“You act as if you’re the one in the wrong here,” I reminded her.

“You’re right, of course. I just feel guilty spying on my own father,”
she said.

I
asked Drake to park and cut off the engine.

The Gentleman’s Pleasure was a gaudy, cheaply ornamented establishment lit up by pink neon signs outlining the roofline. Several groups of men climbed out of their cars and headed inside as well as a few couples. The parking lot was already filling up.

Drake was beginning to object to the whole affair, shaking his head and saying how he did not want to be mixed up in a brawl with Dwight Johnson. His father played in a foursome with Dwight.

Claudia could barely see into the rear entry when the door would open. “It’s so dark. How will I even see him?” she asked.

“You watch the door and I’ll watch the parking lot. I know what your dad drives. Remember, I’ve ridden in his black Caddy a thousand times,” I said.

My
answer seemed to satisfy her. I relaxed and watched the lot for Cadillacs.

Two women climbed out of a small blue economy car. They wore tan trench coats over their clothes and carried large oversized handbags.

“They’re dancers,” I said, knowing how dancers’ cover their costumes
en route
to an event. “It’s too warm outside for coats.”

The sun disappeared entirely.

“So we’re watching for Claudia’s dad and exotic dancers?” asked Drake.

“Is that him?” asked Claudia, leaning out her window.

I was getting put out with Claudia. She reacted every time another car drove into the lot. “It’s not him,” I assured her, my eyes on the tall male guest passing in front of Drake’s car. “I watched that man park a yellow Volkswagen.”

“If we could just get closer. Drake, can’t you pull closer?” asked Claudia.

“Claudia, my parking space couldn’t be any closer to the club,” said Drake. “Ladies, I’m enjoying the entertainment, but you’ve got twenty minutes then I’m driving us out of this place. I’m not getting mugged for either of you, not even you, Peaches.”

“I’ll get out,”
I said.

“It isn’t safe,” said Drake. “Besides, what if someone you know is here. They see you, they’ll tell your folks.
That’s not on my hands.”

“It’s dark. I’ll be fine,”
I said, although I felt a knot in my throat as I opened the door. He could be right for once. I made Claudia promise she would not follow me. Then I ran off, crossing the two-lane road that ran behind the strip club.

The two
exotic dancers had stopped for a smoke outside the club door. They were talking and laughing like two women sitting down to coffee. I stopped a few feet from them, stationing myself at a good vantage point between the parking lot and the door. If Mr. Johnson showed up, he would have to cross in front of me. He would never suspect finding me here. I could easily blend into the faces walking past.

I
watched more guests and dancers arriving, the bright lights of the big sign snapping and buzzing overhead, the bugs spiraling in dizzy circles around the garish glow. When my post grew monotonous, my thoughts drifted to what had transpired this past week at the Miller’s. Reverend Theo retreated into his cave and would not come out. Not when I visited, at least.

The
dancers’ tobacco smoke wafted around me, so I stepped away, coughing. I glanced toward the women noticing one lady pinning up her silky red hair into a glittering cascade of curls down the back of her head. She must have pinned it with rhinestone hairpins. She stood in the direct light of the door opening and closing. I had spent the summer coloring my roots to hide my red hair, but here this woman had styled her red hair in such a glamorous style. Her sophistication mesmerized me; a dancer, yes, but nothing like the naïve teenage dancers in my circle of friends.

The red-haired dancer said to the other, “I’m quitting soon, but don’t tell anyone. I’ve got to get on with my life.”

I stood open-mouthed when she said the last phrase. My mother had said the same exact thing the day she left. I had kissed her as Daddy had made me promise to do, asking my mother to please not go. He had helped me rehearse so I would get it just right. My mother Alice had turned away from her mirror, applying red lipstick. “I have to leave here, Flannery. I’ve got to get on with my life. I know you’re too young to understand.”

The dancer pulled up the hem of her trench coat revealing black lace stockings. She was holding on to her friend to balance herself, wobbling in her sequined heels.

“Alice Curry, you know you’ll come back here. You always do,” said the dancer to her friend.

In that instant, I could not breathe. I
watched the two women slip inside. I had not seen her for more than ten years. But I never would have believed I would not recognize my own mother. This was not the Alice Curry of my fantasies. My Alice floated in a cloud above my head like a guardian angel. Here under the haze of blinding pink neon, nausea came up in my throat. I believed more in the coincidence than the possibility. I imagined after all these years my mother had run off to Hollywood. One day I would look up from a bag of movie theater popcorn and there she would be laying across a velvet chaise lounge in glittering slippers and strands of pearls. I tried to whisper, “Mama,” but nothing came out. Then I called out hoarsely, “Alice Curry.” But the woman had already gone inside.