The Cherry Cola Book Club

by Ashton Lee

  When The Cherico Market contingent had finally dispersed, Maura Beth realized that the head count was inching toward thirty. They were probably going to need more chairs—and quickly. So she temporarily abandoned her station and hurried across the room to enlist Renette’s help.

  “Put down your plate for now, sweetie,” she told her. “We’re going to be scrambling around after all. Quick, think. How many more chairs do we have in the closet?”

  Renette squinted for a moment, moving her lips as she counted. “I think six, maybe seven of the folding. Oh, but we have eight more with the soft cushions in the meeting room.”

  “Good catch!” Maura Beth exclaimed. “I forgot about those.”

  “If this keeps up, looks like you’ll get your standing room only wish,” Renette added as they headed toward the closet.

  Nor was Maura Beth’s urgency unwarranted. At least a dozen more people came through the front door. Among Connie’s lakeside neighbors, the Brimleys and the Milners kept their promises to attend. Then Mr. Place walked in with his mother, who was a bit on the fragile side but still had kind, sparkling eyes.

  “I’m Ardenia Bedloe,” she said to Maura Beth while extending her hand and smiling graciously. “I know you’re not confused by that because my son told you all about changing his name, but I just wanted to thank you for introducing him to Miz Lattimore down at The Twinkle.”

  “Oh, my friend Periwinkle is deliriously happy with all those delicious pastries he makes. His éclairs have been wowing everyone this evening, including myself.”

  Mr. Place thanked her and then suddenly spotted Miss Voncille across the room. “Mama, I’d like to go speak to someone over by the food table and introduce her to you after all these years. She’s the lady standing next to the white-haired gentleman.”

  Ardenia trained her thick glasses in the direction of his index finger. “Who is she, baby?”

  “Miss Voncille Nettles, my history teacher that first year Cherico High was integrated.”

  “Oh, yes,” Ardenia replied, a smile exploding across her face. “I remember now. You liked her best.”

  “Please go on over and make yourselves at home,” Maura Beth added. “I’m sure she’d be delighted to see you both. And help yourselves to the food and drink.”

  Among the last six or seven people that showed, two more cited Becca’s radio program as their inspiration, while the others credited a flyer from such businesses as The Cherico Market, The Twinkle, Cherico Tresses, or the library itself. Happily, The Cherry Cola Book Club was going to be playing to a full house.

  Councilman Sparks took a dim view of the party going on full-blast after he had finished schmoozing the Crumpton sisters. Everyone present was eating, chatting, or laughing the way people do on New Year’s Eve or some other carefree occasion. It particularly annoyed him that the library suddenly seemed to have discarded its perennial “just growing mold” personality.

  Momentarily, Chunky intruded on his leader’s pique. “Man, this sure is a helluva lot a’ people in here!”

  “It doesn’t look good from our point of view,” Councilman Sparks replied under his breath, making sure that no one was within earshot. “I’d guess there are between forty and fifty people in this room. We’ve never had a budget hearing when that many people showed up.”

  Chunky leaned in and responded in a half-whisper. “I know you told me not to, but I checked out the license plates around the library anyway. Didn’t see but a couple from out of state, both from Tennessee. Davidson County, I believe it was. But there was a bunch from other Mississippi counties. I can rattle off the different ones if you want.”

  “And no bus anywhere to be seen,” Gopher Joe added.

  “Oh, never mind all that now. Both of you just go get something more to eat and try to mingle.”

  Something told Councilman Sparks that he had better monitor the situation closely, however, so he kept both of his charges within an approachable radius. As it turned out, his concerns were definitely warranted.

  “Hi!” Chunky said, immediately approaching one of Renette’s girlfriends even before he’d helped himself to a plate of food. “What’s your name and where do you live?”

  The ordinarily extroverted Deborah Benedict shrank visibly from his directness, managing an imitation of a smile. “I might ask the same of you.”

  “Well, I hope you voted for me. I’m E. A. Badham, one of your city councilmen. But folks call me ‘Chunky’ most of the time,” he continued, while patting his bulging belly. “I guess you can see why.”

  To her credit, Deborah did not pull away further, but neither did she answer his questions. “Well, then, Chunky, I think you should help yourself to more of this delicious food I’m sampling here. I’ve seen you make several trips already, if I’m not mistaken.”

  The lurking Councilman Sparks soon intervened, giving Deborah a nod and a perfunctory smile. “If you’ll excuse us for a second, young lady.” Then he pulled Chunky aside and lowered his voice. “Change of plans. You and Gopher Joe just concentrate on stuffing your faces. Forget the socializing. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  There was no denying, however, that most everyone else had the knack of socializing down pat. Especially Maura Beth. From afar, Councilman Sparks watched her flitting around the room with such ease that he actually had to turn away at one point. The library was pulsating with an energy it had never possessed before, and it was all due to the outside-the-box efforts of this unusual woman who just refused to go away. More importantly, it would be difficult to shut down her pride and joy with all this to her credit.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Maura Beth was saying to Becca. They had managed to slip away into the privacy of the meeting room, closing the door behind them shortly before the actual review was about to begin. “Of course I’d be delighted to have you and Stout Fella here doing cooking demonstrations together every month. We need to get as much activity going in the library as possible.”

  Becca exhaled and thought one more time about what she had just proposed. “I know it’ll help you out. And Stout Fella promised even before he got out of the hospital in Nashville that he’d do his part, too.”

  Maura Beth gave Becca a thoughtful glance. “So what do you think you should call these meetings?”

  Becca took her time before a dramatic intake of air. “How about ‘Becca Broccoli in the Flesh’—you know, for those who just can’t get enough of the radio show?”

  “I certainly like your idea of becoming visible after all those years of just being a voice on the radio.”

  “You know what gave me the idea?” Becca said, smartly raising an eyebrow. “It was all the conversations I’ve just had at the buffet table with some of my fans. They kept saying over and over how thrilled they were to see me in the flesh. One of them—I believe her name was Donna—said that putting my face with my voice made me seem all the more real. So I thought, ‘Why not meet more of my fans in person and help the library at the same time?’ ”

  Maura Beth was nodding enthusiastically now. “I bet it’ll work out great. The only thing I’ll need to do is make sure you don’t conflict with ‘Who’s Who?’ and Miss Voncille. We don’t want to start a turf war, but I have to admit the idea of people fighting over using the library is something I’ve been wanting for a long time.”

  Becca smiled pleasantly and then reached over to gently grasp Maura Beth’s hand. “There was something else I wanted to say to you. I’ve been meaning to for a while. You don’t know how much it meant to me—and especially Stout Fella—that you came up to Nashville to visit us in the hospital when you did. That entire balloon thing you invented just brightened our days and nights, and we needed something out of the ordinary to get us through it all.”

  “Oh, it was nothing,” Maura Beth insisted, breaking her grip and waving her off. “I think that little trip helped me out as much as it helped you. I needed to clear my head.”

  “But there was more to it tha
n that,” Becca continued. “I was such a mess when Justin had his heart attack and I thought I might lose him. But all of you rallied around me and kept me going. Connie was the reassuring voice of medical authority, and she and Douglas piled me into the backseat of their car and wrapped me up in a blanket of kindness all the way up to Nashville. His brother and sister-in-law in Brentwood were just as soothing to me, and then you inspired all those balloon bouquets. I remember turning to Stout Fella one evening as he was propped up in bed and saying, ‘Nothing bad can happen with all these pretty, playful things floating around us. No one’s ever sad at a children’s party.’ ”

  Then the two women hugged. “That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Maura Beth told her. She glanced at her watch and gave a little gasp. “But I think we need to get started. Our big moment has finally arrived.”

  After Becca had made her initial announcement about the upcoming “In the Flesh” meetings at the library to the delight of her fans, Maura Beth took back the podium and opened the program in earnest.

  “I trust all of you have enjoyed plenty of this delicious food, courtesy of various members of The Cherry Cola Book Club,” she began after introducing herself. “It’s one of the perks you’ll enjoy if you join us, which we hope all of you will do. But the time has come for us to tackle our Southern classic novel, To Kill a Mockingbird, written by Harper Lee and published in 1960. As everyone surely knows, this was her only work, but it won the Pulitzer Prize for her, and the film version won several Academy Awards, including Best Actor of 1962 for Gregory Peck.” She paused to point toward the Gregory Peck posters and waited for a ripple of female sighs and buzzing to dissipate before again consulting her notes.

  “For those who are visiting us for the first time, we do things a bit differently here in The Cherry Cola Book Club,” she continued. “Anyone can summarize a plot and express emotions like admiration, disapproval, or even indifference as a result. Such is the subjective nature of literature. But we prefer to relate that plot to our own lives or even wider issues. So I’m going to suggest that we discuss To Kill a Mockingbird tonight in the context of the changes that have occurred here in our beloved South since its publication. That said, do I have a volunteer to go first?”

  Jeremy’s hand went up immediately. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to propose that one of my students begins this discussion with a poem he wrote right after reading the novel.”

  “I think that would be a lovely beginning,” Maura Beth replied, stepping aside and smiling at the fresh-faced New Gallatin Academy contingent sitting on the front row in their navy blue blazers and red ties.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Jeremy continued while getting to his feet. “I’d like to introduce to you Mr. Burke Williams of Nashville, Tennessee.”

  There was polite applause as the lanky young man with big ears and a deferential demeanor rose and took his long strides toward the podium.

  “Thank you,” he began, after taking his notes out of his pocket. “Before I read my poem, I’d like to say a few words. My teacher, Mr. McShay, told our class all about The Cherry Cola Book Club, and I wanted to be here no matter what. I know I’m only sixteen and don’t know much about the real world, but after I’d finished reading To Kill a Mockingbird, I felt like I at least knew a little something. I live in the new millennium, not in the 1930s when the novel is supposed to take place, or even in the 1960s when it was published; but To Kill a Mockingbird was like a time machine for me. It enabled me to understand what life was like for a wrongly accused black man like Tom Robinson. I understood how things worked back then and how easy it was for justice to be swept under the rug. So, this is my poem in honor of what To Kill a Mockingbird did for me.”

  He cleared his throat and looked up from his prepared speech. “I know this part by heart.” The audience laughed gently and he acknowledged them with a grateful smile. “Okay. Here goes: ‘On To Kill a Mockingbird,’ by Burke Williams:

  The Southern town of ancient birth

  Lies prostrate and fervid under summer’s sun;

  The children of Atticus play in the yard,

  Engrossed in the realms of fantasy and fun;

  Then the tranquil streets grow frigid with anguish

  As a man of color struggles to live

  Under the wing of Atticus’s justice—

  Of all the benevolence one man can give;

  The wrath of prejudice flows through the veins

  Of those who would try the innocent man;

  And here, as o’er earth, life’s chances unjust—

  Despite brave attempts to fashion a stand;

  But yet as the stars on the face of God’s sky,

  Subtly as sweet scents of roses in bloom,

  The town slips again into everyday life,

  Forgetting the storm and the tears and the doom.”

  The polite reception of a few minutes earlier became healthy applause, and the young man blushed, hanging his head at first. But Jeremy’s hand signals urging him to lift his chin had an immediate effect, and Mr. Burke Williams accepted his moment in the sun with an ingratiating, boyish smile.

  “That was beautifully done, Mr. Williams!” Maura Beth exclaimed, after he had resumed his seat and the reaction had finally died down. “Your insights show a great deal of maturity.”

  Before Maura Beth could ask for another volunteer, however, Mr. Place stood up, gently waving his hand. “If you don’t mind, Miz Mayhew, I have a little something I’d like to contribute. Could I speak next?”

  “Of course, come right on up.”

  Once he was comfortable behind the podium, Mr. Place caught his mother’s eye with a smile and began. “Ladies and gentlemen, although Cherico is my hometown, I didn’t know what to expect when I left Memphis after losing my job as a pastry chef at the Grand Shelby Hotel. I’d been working at that for decades and would have retired at it up there, too. But you may have read that the hotel went out of business and was torn down recently. So that brought me back home to live with my mama for a while until I could find another job.”

  He paused to acknowledge first Maura Beth and then Periwinkle with nods and hand gestures. “I found one a lot quicker than I thought I would, thanks to Miz Mayhew here and Miz Lattimore sitting right there on the front row. In case some of you didn’t know, I’m now the pastry chef down at The Twinkle. As we like to say here in the South, ‘Y’all drop by and see me sometime, ya hear?’ ”

  A spate of warm laughter erupted, and Mr. Place wagged his brows until it tailed off. “So that brings me to our topic tonight—how things have changed here in our South since To Kill a Mockingbird appeared. I saw the movie when I was a boy. That’s what I want to talk to y’all about next. It played here in Cherico at the old Starbright Theater on Commerce Street, which as we all know, got torn down a while ago. You have to go somewhere else to see movies these days. At the time, my mama made extra money for us by babysitting for white families, and she’d take me with her now and then. I made friends with the son of one of those families. You good folks might remember the Wannamakers over on Painter Street? Since I got back, I found out they don’t live here now.”

  That produced a buzz of recognition among the crowd, and Mr. Place waited for it to die down. “Anyway, I became good friends with Jamie Wannamaker, who was about my age, and we played together out in his yard, doing things that little boys do together like catching fireflies and hide-and-seek. Then, my Mama saw where To Kill a Mockingbird was coming to the Starbright. That was back when the Daily Cherico was still in business, and she read an article all about it in the paper. She told me, ‘Baby, I’m taking you to see that movie. I believe we both need to see it!’ ”

  Mr. Place paused and smiled thoughtfully, shaking his head at the same time. “I didn’t understand at the time why she felt that way. Now, of course, I do. But the world is full of strange coincidences, I’ve found out. Don’t know why they happen, but when they do, there’s always a lesson to be learned,
it seems. Turns out, the very afternoon my mama took me to see To Kill a Mockingbird at the Starbright, Miz Wannamaker decided to take Jamie to see it, too. Back then, everybody bought tickets at the booth in front, but only the white people got to go in that way. The coloreds, as they called us back then, went around to the side door to enter the colored section. Some of you might remember that it was much smaller than the white side, but there was a thin wall separating the two.”

  Again, there was a ripple of noise throughout the audience. “I’ll never forget what happened next. Jamie said to his mother right after he’d spied me, ‘Oh, this’ll be so much fun. We can all sit together.’ And she had to tell him that he couldn’t sit with me, and I couldn’t sit with him, and you could tell she didn’t want to go into an explanation of the white and colored thing—just that there’d be a wall between us. Then Jamie started crying, and he wouldn’t stop. It was the strangest thing. I was the one who felt real bad for him. I was the one comforting him. You see, I’d been to the Starbright before, and I knew where the coloreds were allowed to sit. So I said, ‘Jamie, maybe we can’t sit together, but we can be right next to each other. We just have to pretend the wall isn’t there.’ And he said, ‘But how will we know where to sit if we can’t see?’ And this is what I came up with. I decided that we’d move slowly along either side of the wall, row by row, and make a pounding noise each time. When we’d both found a seat we liked on the edge, we would pound five times. Fortunately, both our mothers didn’t make a fuss and let us do it. But I’ve never forgotten all the trouble we had to go to just to pretend we were together. Today, anyone can go to the movies over in Corinth or up to Memphis, and they don’t give a hoot about anything, not even how much noise you make. I sure wish they’d crack down on that—and the prices you have to pay for candy and popcorn.”