Tumbling

by Diane McKinney-Whetstone

  The gold-faced clock ticked to the beat of the chant and made Ethel realize how late it was. The little girl’s voice, the tone to it, the way she said, “lie,” went straight to Ethel’s heart, changed it. Decided she’d skip the sweet sixteenth party after all. Maybe next year. Do this one more tour; then she’d think about going back.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Tom Moore couldn’t have known this was the absolutely worst time to be walking up Noon’s front steps. It was less than two hours before Fannie and Liz’s sweet sixteen party at the Christian Street Y. Better that he’d walked in on their wedding day, or the day one or the other brought her firstborn home, not today, not while a tornado was spinning through that usually immaculate row house. Nerves frayed, like short-circuited wires popping and smacking with unpredictable sparks all over the place.

  First Fannie and Noon. Fannie got a run in her nylon just as she attached it to her garter belt. Made her say, “Oh fuck!” Noon heard her. Ran into her room with her fist balled at hearing such language come from her mouth. Then Fannie told Noon she didn’t know why she had to wear stockings anyhow. Furthermore, she was still upset with Noon for making her get her hair pressed out.

  “I like it crinkly and bushy and pulled back in my pompoms,” Fannie said.

  “The hair don’t have a thing to do with that language I heard coming out of your mouth,” Noon retorted.

  “No, I just look like one of the Lennon Sisters on Lawrence Welk, is all, with this straightened hair all the way down to my shoulders.”

  “The mouth, Fannie, I’m talking about the mouth.”

  “Awl, Noon, give her a break,” Herbie called from downstairs. “If the worse she do is say a four-letter word every now and then, what the hell.” He chuckled at his unintentional cleverness. “Now tell me which of these boxes spread all down here got to go to the Y.”

  “The bud vases, I told you the bud vases.”

  “What the hell’s a bud vase?”

  “The box with the vases wrapped in newspaper. Should be ten. One for each table. The carnations are in the icebox. My hospitality members from church gonna set it all up. Just make sure Maybell gets it. She’s there already. And don’t forget the cake. Lord Jesus, not after I was up half the night icing that cake, please don’t forget the cake.”

  And then of Fannie, she demanded, “Go see if Liz got a nylon that comes close to matching this one. I’m gonna run my bath. And let me know quick if she doesn’t. Have to catch one of those kids playing in the street to send them to the store.”

  Fannie pushed open the white wooden door to Liz’s room. Liz had the larger room thanks to Fannie’s generosity. The one with the walk-in closet that Noon said must have hidden slaves because people back then surely didn’t believe in closets.

  Fannie drew her breath when she looked at Liz. “Oooh, Liz, you’re—you’re beautiful.” Liz’s dress was white brocade, strapless, cinched at the waist with a wide pink satin sash, and then fanned out softly to the scalloped hem that hit just above her ankle. Her flaming red hair was freshly tapered, the rounded hairline prominent in the strapless dress. Her face was made up in lipstick and rouge and pink powdery shadow to her almond-shaped eyes.

  Liz wrinkled her nose and went to her window and slammed it down. “Somebody on this block cooking cabbage, can’t stand that rank smell of cabbage cooking, smell gets all in your clothes.”

  “What’s your problem?” Fannie asked as she went to Liz’s stockings drawer and rifled through it.

  “Number one, don’t be rummaging through my drawer. Number two”—she lowered her voice and sharpened the ends of her words—“there is no way I’m wearing this jacket.” She held up the jacket that matched her dress. Waist-length, leg-o’-mutton sleeves, scalloped neckline to go with the dress’s hem.

  “What’s wrong with the jacket?”

  “Look at the sleeves,” she said, letting the jacket dangle by one sleeve.

  “What about the sleeves?” Fannie turned from the dresser to study the jacket.

  “They’re puffy.”

  “So.”

  “So! So, they look homemade. Noon’s not good with sleeves. I asked her not to put sleeves to the jacket.”

  “Just put the damn jacket on, you know how hard Noon worked on that dress. I haven’t seen her work as hard on anything as she did on that dress.”

  “I’m not wearing the jacket,” Liz said as she smacked it against the bed as if she were trying to swat a fly. “I won’t go before I have to wear something botched up looking like this jacket looks.”

  “Well, guess what—you should have made your own fucking jacket. You being spoiled and ungrateful.”

  “Why should I have to settle because my ability to see the flaws is greater than Noon’s ability to do sleeves?”

  “What? What are you saying? Studying Plato or some damn body.” Fannie started going through Liz’s drawer again. “Think about Noon’s feelings, put the jacket on, and loan me a stocking to match this one so I can finish getting dressed.”

  “You weren’t so concerned about Noon’s feelings when you was around here all afternoon yelling at her about your hair.”

  “Clara did the hair, Liz. Noon’s hands didn’t get crampy and stiff taking hours on the hair. The hair and the dress are two entirely different things.”

  “Well, I don’t appreciate the way you holler around here whenever you get ready, and as soon as I have the least complaint, I got to be selfish and spoiled. Furthermore, my stockings are too short for you and I don’t wear anything that light anyhow. You should have thought about extra stockings when you got paid like I did. I told you I could use my discount at Betty’s for your stockings—”

  Right then there was a crash of a noise downstairs, followed by Herbie’s voice saying, “Oh, shit!”

  Then Noon’s voice rising and falling to quick thumps bounding down the steps. “Not the vases, Herbie, please tell me not the vases!”

  Silence. Then Fannie and Liz looked at each other and in dreadful unison said, “The vases.”

  Tom Moore’s cheek was jumping up and down as he rang the bell to Noon and Herbie’s house. He knew it was late on a Friday evening to still be making calls. But he had a meeting first thing Monday with the board of the Highway South Project, wanted to squeeze in as many calls as possible between now and then. His stomach was full and tight. He hoped Noon didn’t offer him anything to eat. They all offered him something when they asked him to take a seat at their dining room tables. Ham hocks and beans, coffee and pie, port wine, ice cream, Jell-O and pound cake, quick bread, peanuts and mints, a slice of fruit, a chunk of cheese, a slab of ham on lettuce. He hated that about them, that they had to be so courteous. Especially when he sat at some of the dining room tables and they pieced together pennies to send to the corner store for an envelope of Kool-Aid just so they could offer him that. He especially hated when the poorer ones laughed. And the half-dressed, barefoot children played outside on the pavement waiting to grow up. For what? he wondered. Grow up for what? God, how he hated this project.

  The door opened with such force that he stepped back at first. “A quarter apiece,” he heard a woman’s voice moaning. “I paid a quarter apiece for those vases. Now what we supposed to do for centerpieces? What we supposed to sit the carnations in? Water glasses!”

  And then to him, a male voice: “Can I help you please? Well, don’t stand there like you scared, you letting flies in, come in or stay out, one.”

  “Tom Moore,” he said as he quickly pulled a card from his shirt pocket and touched his cheek to still it some. “I represent—”

  “The people trying to chase us out is who you represent,” Herbie said as he closed the door behind him. “I got an earful from the wife about you the other night when you did your pitch at the church.”

  “Mr. Moore,” Noon said, a greeting and a question at the same time, remembering Reverend Schell’s plea to at least be courteous when Tom Moore called. She walked toward the door where To
m Moore stood.

  “If this is a bad time—” He extended his card to Noon.

  “It is, it’s a very bad time,” Herbie called over his shoulder as he stomped toward the back of the house with the box of newspaper-tangled broken glass.

  “Listen, Mr. Moore, you can come on in,” Noon said, exasperated. “I can offer you some lemonade, but it won’t take me too long to tell you I’m not interested.”

  “But once you understand the facts,” he said as he looked around the living room, freshly painted, well maintained, very neat, save the clump of flowers and boxes on the floor. “You stand to make a huge profit on this house, you own it, you’ve got a clear title, even your taxes are up-to-date.”

  “She said we’re not interested right now.” Herbie walked back into the living room carrying the box with the cake.

  “Lord have mercy, Herbie,” Noon breathed, “please be careful with the cake.” And then to Tom Moore: “I wasn’t looking to move on account of a road. Now I don’t even believe there’s gonna be a road, so you can well imagine I’m definitely not looking to move for a lie of a road.”

  “I think we should hear him out,” Liz said as she and Fannie made their way down the steps.

  From where he stood in the living room, Tom Moore had a clear view of Fannie and Liz on the steps. The one looking like a bride, the other in a housecoat, one foot bare, and a stocking dangling from her hand. He thought about Fannie’s outburst when he looked at her. He’d have a hell of a time explaining that to the board. He didn’t even understand it himself. Real estate was his specialty. Not this hocus-pocus seeing eye business and all the singing and praying and preaching these people did. “Just get it done,” the board had told him. “Do what you have to to prevent the court challenges that could tie it up for years.” How could he explain that it might take somewhat longer now that some of these property owners may have been fueled by a teenager who thought she had a vision?

  “Grown folks talking, Liz,” Herbie said as he rested the cake on the coffee table and picked up the bunch of carnations.

  Liz rolled her eyes and pushed past Fannie to come all the way downstairs. “Julep’s cousin lives in West Philly, and she has a huge house, three floors, a porch, a backyard where they barbecue. You can even get to upstairs through the living room or the kitchen.”

  “Julep’s people come from money, Liz,” Noon said, looking at Liz in the dress. “God, that dress is fabulous if I say so myself.” Her voice went quiet as if she were watching a sunset. “Can’t wait to see it in the jacket. Mnh, that hem is perfect. Those scallops took some time, but they were worth every minute.”

  “When she start wearing makeup?” Herbie asked, looking at Liz now too. “Maybe that’s what made her think she could talk like she’s grown, ’cause she got on a little lipstick.”

  “Why is he here?” Fannie asked, motioning to Tom Moore with the hand that held her torn stocking. “I thought we had a party to go to.” She said it more to prevent the back and forth between Herbie and Liz that had intensified over the years and threatened to turn ugly than to make Tom Moore actually leave the house.

  “Fannie, what did I tell you about your manners?” Noon smoothed at the pink satin sash adorning Liz’s white brocaded dress.

  “Fannie’s got a point.” Herbie waved the carnations up and down as he spoke; pink and white petals began to litter the floor. “Riled up as you were over this road thing the other night after you left that meeting at the church, and now you actually gonna give it an audience.”

  “Noon,” Liz whined, “he’s getting ready to do with the carnations what he just did with the vases.”

  “You wanna trade places with these carnations,” Herbie said, looking at Liz with a flash of anger.

  “Come on, Liz”—Fannie tugged on her arm—“please help me find a matching stocking.”

  Tom Moore coughed and hit his chest and rubbed his cheek again. “Well, if one of you, an adult, could sign that I’ve been here and presented the option to you—”

  “No-o-o, siree.” Herbie dragged it out. “We ain’t signing nothing.”

  “Well, it’s just to say that I’ve been here. I’ve got bosses to please. Or—or if you just tell me when I can come back, at your convenience, at least if you hear the offer, the dollar amount—”

  “What’s it gonna hurt to hear the dollar amount?” Liz asked from halfway up the steps.

  “Won’t be needing to come back at all.” Herbie opened the front door. “What else besides the cake needs to go, Noon?”

  “That bag sitting in the corner with the crepe paper and balloons. And you could stop past the church and see if they’re any vases we could borrow; otherwise no need in even taking the carnations.”

  “Royale got some vases. Big Carl’ll be glad to help out. You can follow me on out the door, Mr. Moore; like I said, we’re not changing our minds on this thing.”

  Tom Moore hurried down the steps behind Herbie. He started to offer to help him carry the large box, the brown paper bag, the flowers. Then he remembered Willie Mann had told him Herbie was a porter; used to having his hands full, he thought. No need in offering to help now. He’d be as bad as they were if he started offering shit.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Big Carl sent the vases, the church sent linen napkins, and pink and white crepe paper crisscrossed the ceiling and dipped in the center where the dance floor was. The room was expansive and dimly lit and smelled sweet and salty like mints and peanuts and Noon’s butter cake. All of the Young People’s Usher Board, friends from the block, and around the corner, and classmates showed up with gift-wrapped packages or cards with quarters, no doubt, taped inside.

  The young women were off in one corner, throngs and clumps of satin and lace, seamless hose, hot-curled bangs, and patent leather clutch bags. The young men in another, wearing single-breasted suit jackets and baggy pants with cuffs at the hem, strong cologne from South Street Drugs, and waves in their hair from sleeping in stocking caps and Murray’s hair pomade the night before.

  Right now nobody danced, only the balloons as they bobbed to the beat of the Platters singing “Only You.” Fannie swayed to the rhythm and grinned in her pink and white flowered, cocktail-length blouson dress with slightly mismatched stockings; Liz sulked in her jacket with the puffy sleeves. Julep and her cousin were all over Liz, telling her how gorgeous she was, what shade of lipstick was she wearing, and the pearls, those pearls must be antiques. Liz looked at them in their store-bought evening wear from Snellenberg’s, peeled the jacket to reveal her strapless dress, said the lipstick was by Helena Rubenstein; fingered the pearls that were Noon’s, and said yes, yes, of course they were antiques.

  Herbie and Noon, Maybell and Jeanie and Bow sipped coffee next to the table that held foil-draped trays of chicken wings, sliced ham on lettuce, and hors d’oeuvres made with Vienna sausage and Colby cheese. Bow was describing the shape of Jackie Robinson’s head, he knew because he’d just cut his hair that very morning, and Herbie, tired of the story already, decided he’d get the party started by dancing with the prettiest sixteen-year-old that ever lived.

  Now the Dells were singing “Oh, What a Night” as Herbie sauntered across the room, all eyes on him. He extended his hand to Fannie and bowed slightly, his Cab Calloway bow. Fannie was all teeth as she threw her head back and laughed out loud. She put her hand in his and let him lead her in dance.

  “Well, daughter, might I say you’re looking smashing tonight,” he said as he held Fannie loosely around the waist and spun her across the floor.

  “And, Father, you are quite debonair.”

  “Well, tell your old dad, how does it feel to be sixteen?”

  “Well, you tell me, dear old dad, you’ve been there.”

  “Look”—he fell out of voice—“don’t remind me about being sixteen or I will declare you off limits to any of these think-they-hep-cats getting within two feet of you. Furthermore, you see how we dancing right now, don’t nobody have no righ
t getting any closer than I am right now. And if they do, I’m, I’m—”

  “Oh, Herbie, you so cute.” Fannie kissed him on the cheek.

  “I ain’t gonna be cute if I see anybody even act like they putting the moves on you—”

  Then Herbie felt a tap on his back. He hunched his shoulders to shake it off. Again. Again he shook it off. Then he heard laughter; the whole room laughed. Then Fannie yanked his arm and stopped following his lead.

  “Herbie, he’s trying to cut in.” She laughed too.

  “What? Oh, oh, I was wondering what that was on my back, I thought it was one of these balloons that’s floating all over the place.” He turned to the young man, Pop’s nephew from Norristown. “You drink or smoke, boy?”

  “Herbie, it’s just a dance.” Fannie shook his arm again.

  Herbie stepped back and extended Fannie’s hand to Pop’s nephew. “I got my eye on you, boy. Anybody with enough nerve to cut in on me, I’m keeping my eye on.”

  Fannie winked at Herbie and mouthed the words “Dance with Liz.”

  But Herbie didn’t want to dance with Liz. Liz would suck the air through her teeth, roll her eyes up in her head, complain that he was out of step, ask him why was he still wearing that cheap Old Spice. When he looked in Liz’s eyes, he still saw remnants of that anger and fear he’d seen that night when she shocked him in the hallway. With Fannie, though, he’d see his own reflection. Like the way she looked straight at him that predawn morning he’d pulled her from the pink-lined box, the way she looked at him tonight; made him feel he was good and decent and full of honor when she looked at him like that. He was back along the fringes of the room. The Dells were holding their notes at the part of the song “That’s why I love you so-o-o-o.” Herbie swallowed to get rid of the lump that came up in his throat as he watched Pop’s nephew take Fannie in the circle of his arms, holding her closer, much closer, than he ever had.