The Firefly Dance

by Sarah Addison Allen

  He’d said, “Onest a man drunk the whole jar, even though my pap told him best not to, and that man ripped off all his clothes, ran into the forest far up into the mountains, and never could be found again.” He’d eyed Petey and Hill, “They hear him every so often,” Grandpa said, “laughing his fool head off, his brain gone to mush.”

  Grandma always harrumphed, so Petey didn’t know if it was true or if Grandpa was making it up. It didn’t matter to her, she loved his stories.

  Sometimes he told about the Cherokee, how they were forced to leave their land, most of their things, and walk all the way to Oklahoma, and that many of them had died along the way, in that Trail of Tears. He said Hill and Petey had some Cherokee blood in them and they should be proud of it. Petey figured Grandpa knew so many things and so many people, that he surely would go to God, or maybe Jesus, and talk one of them into doing something sweet, like letting them go home, or if that was too greedy-guts, then having Momma back like she used to be before Rock died.

  When Hill came into the bedroom, Petey was already in bed, having finished all she had to say in her prayers and thoughts to Grandpa. Before he could get to his side, Petey saw there was still dirt on his feet. “You didn’t get a bath.”

  “Mind your own.”

  Petey heard rustling and knew he was sticking his feet under the covers so Momma wouldn’t know he was filthy.

  She slipped out of bed and pulled aside the sheet divider. “I’m going to tell on you.”

  “No you won’t. You never tell on me.”

  That was true. She sure thought about it sometimes, though.

  Hill said, “I’m still hungry.”

  “What you want me to do about it?”

  “You could sneak something.”

  “You know we aren’t supposed to eat in the bedroom. Momma said.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause it gets crumbs in the beds and makes a mess.”

  “But I’m hungry. I won’t leave any crumbles.”

  “We’ll see, okay?” She dropped the sheet and jumped back into her bed.

  Her brother sighed, then said, “It’s weird here.”

  Petey nodded, even though he couldn’t see her. Outside, it was dark. Petey had early on figured out it was a different dark from home, and the sounds were different, too. There wasn’t a creek, and there wasn’t good wind in the trees. She could hear cars go by over and over on the highway not far away. At home, there weren’t many people living in their little town to make much traffic. The air in Texas was hot and dusty, not clean and fresh like the mountain air. Daddy told her to stop comparing the two over and over. He said she was making things worse by not accepting. He said the two couldn’t be compared since it was like the thing about apples and oranges, both were good even if they were very different things. Petey thought home was the sweet crunchy apple, not the sticky runny orange.

  Hill let out a little soft howl and then he was quiet.

  Daddy came in and tucked the covers around Petey, even though it was hot. He sat on the side of her bed. It had always been Momma who sang to them; Daddy had taken her place. He wasn’t as good a singer and he forgot words and had to hum them. When he sang, Single girl, Married girl, most of it was humming, nodding his head, tapping his fingers on his leg in time. Then he kissed her cheek, said, “Sleep and dream good.”

  While he’d been singing, Petey kept her lips pressed together so she wouldn’t laugh at Daddy’s bad singing and the words he had to make up, like how he messed up how the single girl goes to the store to buy all kinds of pretty things and the married girl doesn’t; Daddy had it backwards. She said, “Night, Daddy.”

  Daddy then went to Hill’s side of the bed. “You didn’t get in the tub a lick, did you, boy?”

  She heard Hill admit, “Nossir.”

  “Well, we’ll let it go this once.” Then Daddy sang to Hill, “Oh, that ole ugly Boll weevil told that farmer, well you better treat me right, mmmm; he said, I’ll eat up all your cotton and bed down in your grain bed, mmmmm-mmmm!; that ole boll weevil told the farmer; you’ll need no . . . no . . . you’ll need no 1966 Ford Country Squire machine!; I’ll eat up all your cotton and you won’t mmmmm-mmmm some gas-ooooo-line.”

  Hill hadn’t done like Petey, he was laughing. Then he said, “That’s not the words, Daddy.”

  “Ah well.” There was a rustle, where Petey knew Daddy kissed Hill’s cheek, then, “Night son. Sleep and dream good.”

  “Night,” Hill said.

  At the door, Daddy said, “Your momma will be in after-while to kiss you goodnight.”

  She did come in, a little while after Daddy. She didn’t talk about things or sing (and she always knew the words), or ask them what she could bake up for their big ole sweet tooths. Instead, she kissed Petey on the forehead, pushed back her hair, and Petey figured she did the same to Hill, then Momma left the room.

  Petey didn’t fall asleep for a long time. She heard them when Momma and Daddy went to bed, and then everything was quiet except for night insects and cars. Once Petey thought she heard the lady bump around, but she wasn’t sure if it was her.

  Petey then sneaked out of bed and went to the pantry, took out a sleeve of crackers. She put her ear to the floor and could hear violin music playing, soft and sweet. She listened a while, and almost fell asleep right there on the floor. She sneaked the crackers back to their bedroom, hiding them in her chester-drawers under her cotton undershirts, for later, in case Hill woke up still hungry, even though crackers made the worst crumbs of all. As she laid her head on her pillow, she thought about the lady downstairs.

  Her eyelids fell down and she couldn’t open them again. Everything was so soft and sweet. Little furry puppies ran to her, their tongues flapping in the wind. She laughed and called out to them. When they were almost to her, their eyes glowed mean and their little baby puppy teeth turned pointy-sharp. They snarled and white foamed out of their mouths. Petey ran away, faster faster faster, and behind her there was snapping and snarling—she woke and sat up in bed to a bright early morning that was already hotter than the hottest summer they’d ever had in North Carolina.

  In the kitchen, Momma was making toast. Her arms were bony, and the outline of her body in her gown was thinner than ever. Petey said, “Morning, Momma.” She didn’t tell her about her dream.

  Without turning, Momma said, “Morning.”

  Daddy came in and kissed Momma on top of her head, then kissed Petey on top of her head. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at the table. Momma served him his breakfast first. There were eggs and toast and marmalade.

  Petey said, “Momma, you haven’t made biscuits in forever.”

  She shrugged, a tiny shrug, so tiny it could have been something that wasn’t a shrug at all.

  Daddy said, “I do miss your biscuits.”

  Momma handed Petey her breakfast. She said, “It’s too hot here.” And that was that. Petey could tell by the way Momma set her mouth she didn’t want to talk about it.

  Hill came in yawning, hands down the back of his pajamas, scratching his behind.

  Momma told him to go wash his hands.

  After breakfast, Petey and Hill went outside and Daddy left for work. Daddy never talked about the men joking around like he’d talked about at home. He’d been friends with the men at the textile mill for a long while, and even though a few of them had also moved to Texas, he didn’t get to see them much, for it was a big ole plant, full of people bustling around, Daddy said. Petey wanted to tell him to give it more time and he’d make friends, just as he told Petey she would once school started.

  Petey went quiet as an egg thief and sneaked up to the lady’s window. When she saw the lady was turned in a way where she couldn’t see Petey, she watched her eat her breakfast. Petey was interested in the way the lady set down her
fork after each bite and chewed slow and easy. Momma’s manners were always perfect, too. She’d get onto them for eating too fast or talking with their mouth open or their elbows on the table. Most times, they all tried to have polite manners, except for the times she and Hill forgot or were having too much fun with Daddy talking and joking and telling stories. Not so much, anymore. She backed away from the door before the lady caught her, pulled her bike out of the shed, and rode it in circles in the dirt.

  Chapter 6

  It was a hotter-than-the-blued-blazes day while Petey was looking for interesting rocks that she saw the lady come out of her house and grab a little red wagon with a rope tied on the handle so she didn’t have to bend over. The lady set off down towards the road pulling it behind her.

  Petey was surprised at how young the lady was, younger than Petey had thought. She wore a pair of black cigarette pants and a white top that she’d tied into a knot at the waistband of the pants, and on her feet were black slip-on shoes. Her hair was piled on top of her head and held with chopsticks, and was messy in a way that was pretty and interesting. On her wrists flashed slim silver bracelets, about ten of them it looked to Petey. Petey had never seen someone who seemed so foreign even while being so American. She was like a movie star, except her face didn’t have the I’m-better-than-you-since-I’m-famous look that lots of Hollywood people had.

  Petey hid behind a clump of bushes and waited for the slow count of five before she followed the lady. She followed her down the road, keeping far enough behind her, hiding behind bushes when she needed to, creeping along—she tried to think how a brave warrior Indian girl would walk quiet through the woods to hunt for food, or spy on the enemy, or spy to see what some boy she liked was doing.

  The lady walked all the way to the grocery, and when the doors closed around her, Petey counted to ten and then went inside. She pretended she was shopping so she could watch what the lady put into her wagon. The lady picked up packs of cookies and cake mixes (Petey’s momma had always had a fit if anyone bought cake mixes), olives in black and green, a jar of salsa, two cans of tuna fish, oysters in a can (nasty ole oysters looked like snot to Petey), two loaves of soft white bread that Petey knew wouldn’t have much taste, not like Momma’s bread. The lady spent a lot of time at the meat counter and finally put a roast into her wagon, then some potatoes and salad fixings. The lady stared into her wagon, then let out a sigh.

  While she paid for her food, Petey went outside to wait. When the lady came out of the grocery pulling her wagon with the grocery bags in it, Petey pretended to be milling around, slipping along with the breeze, not a care in the world, like nobody’s beez-wax was hers and she was nobody’s beez-wax.

  “Are you going to talk to me or just keep following me around and humming?”

  Petey’s head shot up where she’d been looking at the ground.

  The lady gave a pretty laugh, and her face was bright with a smile.

  Petey’s face burned.

  “I’m Anna. Who are you?”

  The lady, Anna’s, voice was pretty, all light and soft, but strong at the same time.

  “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”

  “No, ma’am.” Petey kicked at the dirt, then said, “I’m Petey.”

  “Well, I’m much too young to be a ma’am.” She held out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Petey.”

  Petey shook her hand. Her hand was soft as a newborn puppy.

  “You live upstairs from me.”

  Petey figured she’d seen her spying and the thought made shame and embarrassment slip into her blood all the way to her marrow. She said, “Yeah, me and my brother and my parents live upstairs from you.”

  “That’s so nice.” She pulled the wagon closer to her. “Shall we?” She pointed to the road towards home.

  Petey walked beside her, trying to be as sophisticated as Anna. It was hard to be sophisticated, since Petey was wearing raggedy cut-off shorts with holes in them, a stained t-shirt, and her floppiediest flip flops that kept her feet and ankles dirty. After a bit, she couldn’t stand her curious thoughts anymore, so she asked Anna, “Where did you go on your vacation? Daddy said the landlord said you had a vacation somewhere’s far away.”

  “I was in Japan. Last year I went to Italy, and next year I want to go to Greece.”

  Japan, Greece, Italy. Petey was astounded. She’d never been anywhere other than North Carolina, and Texas, and the states they’d passed in between.

  As if Petey had said something, Anna said, “I know, I know. How come I live in a half-house when I can afford to travel like that?” That tinkling laugh again, then, “That is precisely why I live in a half-house, so I can afford to travel all over.”

  Petey nodded, then said, “Oh,” in case Anna didn’t see her nod.

  “My parents left me some money. I’d rather have my parents alive, though.” She looked sad, then, “Yes, well, life is strange sometimes.” She jerked the wagon from where the wheel stuck in a hole.

  “You’re a orphan?” Petey had never met an orphan before.

  “I guess I am.” Anna seemed surprised at that notion.

  Petey didn’t know what to say about being an orphan.

  Anna shrugged with one little shoulder. “It’s okay. Really.”

  “Our brother died soon after he was out, um . . . was out of Momma’s wombal area.”

  “I am so sorry. My dear people, so awful to lose loved ones.”

  They walked along and Anna talked about how she was born in Dallas and ended up in Fort Worth after her friend moved out of the half-house and she was able to move in after her—a bargain, she said. She then said, “I bought things to make a dinner. I’m not much of a cook, I’m afraid. There’s this guy.” Pink flamed on her cheeks. “He has dark hair and dark eyes and is so quiet, but strong, too. You know?”

  Petey didn’t really know, except her daddy was quiet but strong so she could relate to that. Then she remembered Barry Burke had dark hair and eyes and wondered if when he kissed her she had that same look come across her as Anna did, at least before Petey beat him up. She wondered what it would be like to cook for a beloved with dark hair and dark eyes who was quiet but strong, then decided she’d rather someone cook for her.

  When they were on the gravel driveway back to the half-houses, Petey hoped Anna would invite her in. She asked her, “Do you need help with your groceries?”

  “Well, you can help me take them in, and after that you can keep me company while I put them away.”

  Petey’s heart set to thumping and she couldn’t help but grin. Off in the scraggly puny woods, she heard Hill give a couple of sharp barks.

  Anna laughed, then said, “That brother of yours is the cutest thing. I watch him sometimes from my window.” She opened her door. “You’re lucky; I was an only child.”

  Petey couldn’t believe it. Anna an orphan and no brother or sister. She said, “My momma was a only child, too.”

  “Well, seems we have things in common, don’t we?”

  When they walked into the kitchen and Anna turned on the light, Petey’s mouth near dropped all the way open where Anna could see the flappy thing hanging there. She set down her bag of groceries on the counter and tried not to gawk. The kitchen was painted red, and the cabinets were black. On the walls were pictures that must have come from Japan, and Italy, and wherever else Anna had been; Petey hadn’t ever seen things like that in America. She hadn’t been much of anywhere to see much of anything like Anna’s things. On the floor were colorful rugs. And the magnets were from all over creation. Some of the magnets were shaped like states or countries, some like animals or birds, fish, or flowers, or square with writing on them.

  Anna went back outside for the third bag while Petey stood, moving only her eyes around so she wouldn’t be seen as too nosey. When Anna came back in, she beg
an putting up the groceries, and told Petey she taught dance to girls, and sometimes even to couples who wanted to be romantic again. She said she’d never be a professional dancer herself because she wasn’t good enough. She didn’t seem upset about it, Petey didn’t think.

  Anna’s kitchen was beautiful and strange, like Anna herself. Their half-house was ugly and sad, sort of like how they’d become, especially Momma. She felt shame for how their half-house looked. She didn’t want to feel that way about Momma, her house, her whole stupid idiot life. But she did.

  Anna stretched up to put away the tuna. “I love tuna sandwiches,” she said. “With pickles, onions, mustard and mayonnaise.”

  Petey remembered when her parents had talked about fixing up the place, and how she could paint her half of her room any color she wanted, and Hill could paint his any color. She had decided on a lightest lilac, like Momma’s bubble bath, and she wanted a bedspread she’d seen in a Sears catalogue, white with flowers embroidered on it, and a soft rug in the shape of a flower. Hill wanted his half painted with zebra stripes.

  Anna went to the refrigerator and put away the rest of her groceries. “In this heat, I should’ve put away the cold things first.” She shook her head.

  Nothing had been fixed in Petey’s half-house. The yellow was still yellow and the green still green and the kitchen curtains still baboon-behind ugly. Petey stared at the Buddha where it sat as if another person, its hands face up and in its lap. It looked wise enough to give her answers to all her questions, if it could talk.

  “That posture of the Buddha is meditation. I used to meditate a lot, but lately I seem just too distracted.” She did seem discombobulated as she folded the grocery sacks and put them away. “This dinner,” she sighed, then, “Why did I pick roast? I have never cooked a roast! And I told him I’d bake a cake. I hope that mix is okay. Everyone likes chocolate, right?”