1933
My mama is a floozy.
I hate that word. In my head I see flashes of messy-haired women, too-tight red dresses and too much moonshine. But floozy is all I can think as I lay here in the back of the Model T flatbed and look for the stars.
The night is cool for summer, too cool for my short-sleeved shirt and overalls that got damp in the heat of the day. My back hurts from so much time on the rough bed of this truck, but my body won’t move. It’s been a long day, maybe the longest of my life, and I don’t know how it’s going to end.
A sliver of moon is going in and out of clouds. Somewhere up there are Orion and Perseus and Cassiopeia, groups of stars that Daddy first showed me when I was five, the day I lost my rag doll with yellow yarn hair. Daddy picked me up with one arm and pointed to the stars with the other. I snuggled my head against his shoulder. “Callie, the night sky is magic,” he said. “Look up when you’re sad or angry and feel the peace of the stars shining down on you.”
My poor Daddy. It’ll take more stars than are in this Arkansas sky to make him feel better when he finds out about Mama.
I had expected the day to be as hot and flat as any other summer Tuesday. That morning Daddy went off to fix a railroad bridge way across the state. “I’m a lucky man,” he told me when I pouted over his long absence. “So many men are out of work these days. Be thankful I have a job.” But his job left just Mama and me in the house, with the days too long and lonely.
Mama changed the bed linens upstairs as I sat in the kitchen and ate leftover pancakes for lunch. I dragged each piece slowly through melted butter and Karo syrup that pooled in the center of my plate. I did everything as slow as I could each morning to put off my chores. I wanted to be outside, climbing the old hickory tree or reeling in blue catfish from the creek on Billy John Crawford’s farm.
As I popped the last bite of pancake into my mouth, someone knocked at the kitchen door. I wiped a dribble of syrup from my chin and opened the door to a strange boy that looked about ten, like me, but with dirty red hair and even dirtier bare feet. He dressed like the people who come to our back door sometimes for food.
“Martha Baker live here?” He kept tossing a white envelope from one of his hands to the other.
“Who wants to know?” I said, putting my hands on my hips. I knew it was rude, that Mama would scold me if she heard, but sometimes I can’t help myself.
The boy shoved the envelope at me, then flashed a nickel and grinned. “Some man paid me to bring her this. She live here?” he asked again.
I nodded and took the envelope. “Thank you,” I said. His nickel had won my respect. I was about to ask how I could get such a job, but he turned and ran away.
I went to find Mama and saw her coming down the stairs. “What’s this?” I asked.
Mama leaned over the banister to take the envelope and glanced at her name on the front. “Nothing. Get along.” She turned her back as she opened the letter. After a moment, she said, “I have to get dressed and go into town. You finish your chores and stay out of trouble!” Mama ran down the rest of the steps and tucked the letter into her purse on the hall table. Then she hurried back up to her room.
When I heard her door close, I snuck a look in the purse for loose change. If Mama was going to town, I’d have enough time to walk to the general store and buy sour balls. I grabbed two pennies that had fallen to the corner of the bag. I wasn’t thinking about the letter, but there it was, out of the envelope, folded in half. It wouldn’t hurt to take a peek.
Dear Martha – I got to town this morning. Come as soon as you can, room 202. See you when my meeting is over. Bill Dobbins, Esq.
I’d never heard of Bill Dobbins and couldn’t think why Mama would want to meet him. I closed the purse and glanced up the stairs to make sure I hadn’t been seen. Mama hated nosiness and would get the switch after me for sure.
I washed breakfast and lunch dishes as I waited for Mama to leave. When she didn’t appear, I went upstairs and tapped on her door. She opened it with an aggravated look and continued to clip on shiny blue earrings as she asked me what I wanted.
“You’re beautiful!” I said, surprised to see her silky blue dress and shoes
with high heels. Mama’s hair, usually a single braid twisted into a bun, now flowed about her shoulders. I tugged at my own black braids and wondered if I’d ever be as pretty as her.
“Thank you.” Mama checked the buttons that ran down the front of her dress, then looked at me. “Well, what is it?”
“I’m going to clean the stalls now,” I said.
“Fine.” Mama walked back to her mirror and opened a lipstick tube. With one twist of the bottom, a scarlet point sprang up. Mama smoothed it across her lips, then spoke to my reflection. “Wash yourself up good when you’re done. I’ll be back before it gets dark.”
I frowned at her back but kept quiet as I pulled the door closed behind me. Mama never puts on red lipstick when Daddy is around. He likes her face clean.
Like most things I know I shouldn’t do, I didn’t plan it ahead of time. But when I passed the old truck on my way to the barn, I had a sudden urge to jump in the back and sneak a ride to see where Mama was going. It was a powerful urge, too strong to disobey. With a bale of hay and an old tire in the back of the truck, I didn’t think Mama would notice me. I lay down on the floor and covered myself with a raggedy brown horse blanket. It stunk and the wool pricked my arms, but I told myself I could last the half hour into town. I held my breath when I heard Mama get in the truck and didn’t budge until we were bumping down the old dirt road.
A while later I felt the truck jolt to a stop and heard Mama turn off the engine. I remembered Daddy saying there was no reason a woman needed to know how to drive. “I don’t want to be cooped up here while you’re out working ’til all hours!” she had said. Sometimes Mama makes him ride with other men so she has the truck to herself.
I lay still for a few minutes after I heard her get out. Then I pushed the hot, stinky blanket away in relief and raised my head to see where I was. Mama’d parked at the curb alongside the big Hotel Imperial, a fancy white building, three stories high. Nobody I knew ever went to such a place.
Deciding to give her time to get good and inside, I turned and glanced at the row of stores across the street from the hotel. Now I wished I had found more pennies in Mama’s purse. Here in town I could get treats much better than sour balls.
Minutes later I stood in the hotel doorway and looked around the lobby, ready to back out fast if I saw Mama. She must have gone right up to the room,
though, because the only people in sight were an old couple on a sofa and a man with slicked back hair standing behind a huge, shiny wooden counter. He leaned over and wrote in a big, flat book.
Just last spring I spent a sweaty evening crammed into the old revival tent at the county fairgrounds, along with about everybody we knew, to see Greta Garbo in Grand Hotel. The inside of this Hotel Imperial was nothing like that fancy movie one, but it was still more elegant than anything I’d ever seen in real life. Red velvet curtains hung at windows that stretched nearly from ceiling to floor. Whole trees stood in giant flower pots, lined up against the wall or gathered behind small groups of plump chairs with shiny tan covers.
Opposite the counter was a wide, carpeted staircase. I looked back at the man, who was still writing, then headed toward the stairs in search of Room 202.
“Can I help you, little girl?” The man behind the counter called across the lobby.
I turned and walked a few steps toward him, thinking fast. I don’t like telling lies, but sometimes it’s the only way to get from here to there. Looking up at him and smiling, I said, “I’m here with my Mama and Daddy. He’s Bill Dobbins, E-S-Q. We’re staying in Room 202. I’m going up there now.”
The man shrugged and pointed his pen toward the stairs. “Your mother is already there. Go on ahead.”
I wanted to run up the stairs before he could change his mind. Instead, I held firmly onto the fat polished railing and went up like a girl used to visiting fine places.
At the top step, I stopped and looked around a big, open area. Nobody was in sight. To the left, a gold and white sofa stood against the far wall and faced two stout, matching chairs. A squat table covered with magazines sat between the sofa and the chairs. Straight ahead the open space narrowed into a long hall with a row of doors on either side. A small sign at the entrance to the hall said, “Rooms 201 – 212.”
I got close enough to see that the first room on the right was 202. “Well, now what?” I asked myself. I couldn’t exactly go up to the door and knock. But I needed to see this Bill Dobbins and find out what he wanted with my Mama.
I turned back and saw the sofa as the only hiding place. I slipped behind it and found a position where I could peer around the edge. With the table and chairs in the way, I didn’t think anyone would notice me.
So I sat.
After what seemed like forever, I heard the rustle of paper and peeked out
to watch a tall, gray-haired man in a black suit walking up to 202. His left arm cradled a large bunch of flowers wrapped in white tissue paper. He knocked on the door.
I couldn’t see past the man as Mama opened the door, but I could hear her speak. “Beautiful! Thank you!” she said in a voice that didn’t quite sound like Mama. I strained a little farther to get a better look.
Suddenly the man grabbed Mama’s waist and pulled her toward him. She put her arms around his neck, dropping the flowers as she kissed him. Pink and yellow buds broke free and scattered around his shoes.
I know a thing or two about kissing. Grand Hotel had got my attention. I couldn’t understand half of what Greta Garbo said, but her love scene with John Barrymore didn’t need words. The frilly decoration of her hotel room, the canopied bed where they sat, her long satiny nightgown, the first seconds that she stared into his eyes. A quick, sharp kiss, broken as they hugged. She lay back against her pillows, pulling him with her to kiss fast again. They stayed like that until her maid knocked on the door.
That’s when I breathed again.
A few days after the movie, I gathered kindling with Billy John in the woods by his house. Billy John is shorter than me, has too many freckles, and is not real smart. He was the handiest boy to practice on, though. So I told him to kiss me.
“Like hell I will!” he said, backing away.
“It don’t mean nothing,” I promised him. “I just want to see what it’s like.”
Since he doesn’t get to the movies much, I had to tell him what to do. I pretended his hands weren’t grimy as he put them on my shoulders. I closed my eyes and felt his dry little mouth touch mine. He started to pull away right quick, but I held onto his arms for a few seconds more. I tried my best to picture John Barrymore, but Billy John smelled too much like cornbread and greasy hair. I let him go and stood still for a minute, thinking about the kiss. Then I shoved him so hard he fell on his behind. I ran all the way home.
Watching movie people kiss is one thing. Kissing Billy John hardly counts. But seeing my Mama kiss this strange man made my stomach hurt. I had to shut my eyes and sit back against the wall. I heard the door close.
I sat a long time squeezed behind that couch. My legs ached from bending under me, and my head ached from the memory of what I had seen. I never did hear the door open again.
Sometime later I looked out to be sure the hall was clear, then crept down the stairs and went back outside to the truck. I kicked up dirt and trash by the curb in hopes of finding a dime. Maybe a pocket full of candy would make me feel better. Finally I gave that up and crawled back under the dirty old blanket in the truck bed. My head ached so much, and soon I fell asleep.
I woke up when Mama stopped the truck back at home. The sun had gone down. I heard Mama’s high heels clop up the porch steps and her muffled voice as she called to me inside the house. She must have looked everywhere for me, as much as she shouted my name.
I’ve been laying here, listening to the barn animals settle down to sleep, listening to Mama step onto the porch and call for me, listening to the screen door slam as she goes back inside. I know sooner or later the stars will come out.
