The Ghosts of Tupelo Landing

by Sheila Turnage

  Mr. Red blinked and just like that, he was back: an old man in a dirty kitchen.

  The stove clock ticked. A chicken clucked at the back door.

  “You’d best clean up in here, Red Baker,” Grandmother Miss Lacy said, picking up her pocketbook and looking around the room. “This is no way for a boy to live. Get in the Buick, children,” she said. “I have things to do.”

  Mr. Red stood up, walked down the hall, and closed the door.

  Chapter 37

  Fishbowl Friday

  Three days later—Fishbowl Friday—the sixth grade filed into class loaded down with notebooks, DVDs, and a sense of doom. Nellie still lurked in the inn—she moved Lavender’s tape measure twice when he tried to measure a new threshold for the dining room. Cute, but not footnote-worthy.

  I’d developed my last photos of Nellie with pitiful results: images so blurry and light-speckled, they could have been anything—including sloppy camerawork. Starr was still AWOL with our fingerprint. “We’re doomed,” I told Dale as the school door clunked shut behind us.

  “Maybe Miss Retzyl won’t call on us,” Dale muttered, heading down the hall. “If we survive oral reports and get Nellie’s fingerprint back, we got a shot at an A on the final paper. We’re better off than Harm, anyway. He’s only got three pages of notes.”

  Still, Harm swaggered down the hall like a World War II pilot in an old movie. “Things must be working out good with Mr. Red,” I said.

  Attila sailed up to Harm. “Fishbowl Friday. I just know I’m going to flunk,” she wailed, clutching his arm as we headed into the classroom. Harm looked at me and rolled his eyes.

  “Good morning, class,” Miss Retzyl chirped. “Please write your name on a slip of paper and place it on the corner of your desk. I’ll take a quick look at your rough drafts and drop your name in the fishbowl.”

  “Tell us that deal again,” Jake Exum said. He and Jimmy, who’d worn their brown Sunday suits, had combed their slicked-down hair clear to the scalp.

  “Your name goes into the fishbowl,” she said. “I’ll draw names to see who presents an oral report. Feel free to use audiovisuals. We’ll devote the afternoon to your presentations.”

  “That’s for extra credit, right?” Jimmy asked, and she nodded. “Me and Jake volunteer. We got a talent for public speaking. Plus we brought exciting teaching tools.”

  “Wonderful,” she said, her voice going tight. To me, she looked nervous. “I’ll put you in the lineup.”

  Jimmy and Jake high-fived.

  I leaned sideways in my seat and peeked at the Exums’ desks. Among the crumpled paper and bent books I could make out brown paper bags.

  After lunch we slunk into the classroom, eyes down like Queen Elizabeth after a squirrel disaster. Miss Retzyl smiled. “Now for history.”

  I raised my hand. “Miss Retzyl, it’s only one o’clock. We’re facing two hours of history, which I feel is maybe criminal. I’d hate to see you get in trouble so close to your wedding. By the way, have you and Joe Starr announced a date yet? You’ll want to reserve the café for your reception. Mr. Li comes back from vacation soon, and karate classes will start up again. It’d be a shame for your nuptials to get bumped by martial arts.”

  Sal whipped out her weekly planner.

  “We haven’t chosen a date, Mo. When we do, I’ll let the class know,” she said, and Sal put her planner away. Miss Retzyl looked at the Exums. Jimmy stood up and buttoned his suit coat. “We’ll save the Exums for our finale,” she said. Jimmy sat down and fist-bumped his brother. “The laptop’s set up if anyone needs it for PowerPoint.”

  I pinched my nose to disguise my voice. “Anna Celeste volunteers.” Attila’s worth a good hour of mindless blather, more if her brain’s left to graze on its own.

  “Mo?” Miss Retzyl said. “Did you say something?”

  “No ma’am,” I said, and coughed.

  “Hair ball,” Dale explained.

  Miss Retzyl dipped into the fishbowl. “Let’s see what fate has in store.” Dale stopped breathing as she pulled out a twist of paper. “Sal,” she said, beaming. “You’re up.”

  “Good luck,” Dale whispered, and Sal blushed.

  Sal took center stage. She inserted a flash drive into the computer, and shook her tight curls. I applauded. “Thank you, everyone,” she said. “I interviewed my grandmother, whose mom was the finest seamstress this town’s ever known. In fact,” she said, walking over and tugging the window shades down, “if your ancestors looked good, it’s because of mine. Hit the lights, Dale.” Dale darted to the light switch. “PowerPoint,” she told us, and I heard him stumble in the dark.

  “Image one. Great-Grandmother Amanda heading to the Tupelo Inn to fit dresses for some la-de-da rich ladies. Photo courtesy of Miss Lacy Thornton.

  “Image two,” she said, perching on the corner of Miss Retzyl’s desk and crossing her legs. “A dress designed by Great-Grand Amanda. Notice the mid-calf hemline and elegant sweep. Very classy.

  “Image three. Great-Grand at her Singer sewing machine. Note the treadle. No wonder she had great legs.” Sal rustled her paper. “Here’s a quote from my aunt,” she said. “‘Tupelo Landing was a fashion mecca in its time, thanks to the Tupelo Inn and Great-Grand Amanda.’

  “Lights,” she said, and Dale slapped them back on.

  Sal smiled. “I sew too. In my family we feel even accountants can dress good. Thank you for your time.” She jettisoned off Miss Retzyl’s desk and headed for her own, her expression a mix of pride and relief.

  “Wonderful,” Miss Retzyl said, dipping her fingertips into the bowl. We lucked out: “Anna Celeste.”

  Reprieve! Public speaking is to Attila as rotting banana is to fruit fly. We smiled, urging her on with our eyes. She didn’t disappoint.

  Attila’s presentation hit me like Novocain between the eyes. Forty-five minutes into it, Miss Retzyl interrupted. “Thank you, Anna Celeste,” she said. “I think I have the gist of your report on Miss Lacy Thornton.”

  “But I have decades to go,” Attila said, looking shocked. “I’m only in the 1960s.”

  Dale’s hand shot into the air. “I’d like to hear more.”

  “Me too,” Thes said, lifting his head from his desk. The spiral pattern of his notebook’s spine crisscrossed his face.

  “Thank you, Anna,” Miss Retzyl said. “Let’s give someone else a chance before our finale.” She reached for the bowl.

  “Not another one,” I begged. I hate it when I beg.

  “Please not me,” Hannah prayed, closing her eyes.

  “Me neither,” Dale prayed.

  I closed my eyes, trying to sort the fishbowl entries with my personal chi, willing mine to the bottom of the bowl. “Not Mo not Mo not Mo,” I whispered.

  She reached in. “Mo,” she said. “Mo and Dale. Who’s giving the report?”

  Dale moaned.

  “Are our names in there?” I asked. “Because Dale’s our spokesman and as his manager I’m saving his voice for The Bash. We can’t let the town down. That would be wrong on a civic level and unless I’m mistaken, civic beats history.”

  She gave me the Surrender Glare. “Mo . . .”

  “Yes ma’am,” I said, my heart drooping like last week’s roses. “Give me a minute to gather our massive trove of information.” Dale rattled papers while I pawed through my desk. “While we do that, I’d like to remind everyone On the Verge performs live at The Bash, just one week from tomorrow. We’re inviting you to cheer when Dale and Harm take the stage. This cheering’s for sixth grade only. Seventh graders have asked and we’ve turned them down cold.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jake Exum smile stiff as cardboard.

  The Exums. It was a long shot, but I took it.

  “It’s going to take a few minutes to get my papers in order and I know the Exums put together a f
antastic presentation. Nobody wants to miss it, so I’m inviting them to leap-frog in. At this time, Dale and me yield the floor to Jimmy and Jake Exum! Put your hands together! Let’s give the Exum boys a big welcome!”

  Dale, Sal, Harm, and I clapped like maniacs, our applause drowning out Miss Retzyl’s voice as the Exums jumped to their feet. Jake buttoned his coat and they marched to the front of the class, each clasping a crumpled brown paper bag.

  “Good afternoon,” Jimmy said, bowing stiffly to Miss Retzyl and then smiling at the class. “We’re Jimmy and Jake Exum from the back row.” He unfolded a paper from his pocket, and read. “Our report is on Miss Delilah’s candy store, built in 1902. But when we went to interview her she had changed her mind, which is why we need extra credit. She gave us candy if we would go away,” he said, nodding at Jake, who started down the first row, dropping a handful of candy on each kid’s desk.

  The class stirred as he dumped the leftovers on Miss Retzyl’s blotter. “A bribe,” Dale whispered. “Brilliant!”

  Jimmy smiled. “Time was running out, so we went to our neighbor Hank. Hank fought in a war. He learned munitions.”

  Jimmy took two small jars from his bag. Miss Retzyl snapped to attention. “What’s in those jars?” she demanded.

  Jimmy looked at Jake. “I think Hank said mix these up,” he said, opening the jars and tipping one over the other. “Or else he said not to.”

  “I know science,” Thes screamed, tearing for the door. “Run!”

  A pop. A flash. Black smoke billowed into Jimmy’s face. “Everybody out!” Miss Retzyl shouted, covering her face. “Now!”

  I slid my candy into my messenger bag and grabbed my camera. Click.

  A half hour later I opened a lollipop and watched the volunteer firemen hose down our classroom. “There’s Lavender. Hey, Lavender!” I shouted, rocking up on my toes. “That’s a good look for you!” He tipped his fireman’s hat. Click.

  Mayor Little roared up in his Jeep. “Everybody stay calm,” he shrieked. “We’ll have this disaster in hand in no time.”

  The entire school had emptied out. Second graders milled around their teachers. First graders huddled together crying. “The Exums look wilted,” Dale said.

  Harm, who sat on a picnic table, nodded. “Probably seeing more homeschooling in their future.”

  “Mama says you should be kind in a disaster,” Dale said. “Let’s go say something nice.”

  We oozed over. “Hey Exums,” I said. They looked up from their polished shoes, their eyes guarded. “Your report really held my attention.”

  Dale nodded. “Good candy.”

  Harm unwrapped a Tootsie Roll and popped it in his mouth. “I wouldn’t worry about those eyebrows,” he told them, winking at me. “I hear they grow back fast.”

  Did Harm Crenshaw wink? At me?

  The sixth grade swiveled as a dirt-colored Impala skidded onto the school grounds, blue dash light flashing. “Hey, Detective Starr! Dale and me are still waiting for our fingerprint report!” I called as Starr charged across the yard to Miss Retzyl.

  “That’s sweet,” Attila said as Starr hugged Miss Retzyl.

  “Gross,” Harm and I replied in unison.

  Attila smirked. “I don’t think it’s gross at all. Who are you going to The Bash with, Mo?” she asked, glancing at Harm. “Or can’t you get a date?”

  A date?

  I looked at Dale. Sal moved a half step closer to him. Harm crossed his arms.

  “Mo can go with anybody she wants to, except me,” Dale said as Thes wandered by, staring at the clouds.

  “Really?” Attila leered.

  “That’s right, Braces Breath,” I said. “I didn’t mention it earlier because I didn’t want to break any hearts, but I’m going with Thes,” I said, giving him a Back Me Up Or I’ll Kill You Look.

  Harm turned and sauntered away.

  The blood left Thes’s freckled face. “Right, Thes?”

  Thes worked his mouth like a fish tossed on the creek bank. “Yes, honey bunny,” he croaked.

  Miss Retzyl stormed toward us as water laced with candy wrappers surged out of the front door and swirled down the steps.

  I stepped forward. “On behalf of the sixth grade, I’d like to say that was maybe the most memorable history class ever. Thank you, Miss Retzyl.”

  “Be quiet, Mo,” she replied.

  She stared at the Exums. Jake and Jimmy buttoned their suit coats and stepped forward, smiling like nervous jack-o’-lanterns. Her gaze lingered where their eyebrows used to be.

  “Class dismissed until further notice,” she said. “Your history reports are due October 24, regardless. Double-spaced and footnoted.” She spun and walked away.

  Perfect! Extra time to get our fingerprint report from Joe Starr.

  The Exum twins unbuttoned their coats and high-fived.

  “See you at The Bash,” I shouted. “Remember: On the Verge, eight p.m.! Don’t forget to cheer!”

  Chapter 38

  Good News

  The day of The Bash started nice and exploded into perfection around 10:00 a.m. when Lavender walked through the café door. “Good news,” he said, smiling at Miss Lana, the Colonel, and me. “Skeeter thinks she found a buyer for the Duesenberg. The town’s problems are practically solved.”

  Miss Lana shrieked, threw her dishtowel in the air, and hurled herself into Lavender’s arms. As Lavender laughed and spun her around, a tsunami of jealousy swept me under.

  “Are you sure?” Miss Lana asked as he let her go.

  “Almost,” he said. “That old Duesenberg not only looks gorgeous, she purrs like she means it. Skeeter’s still firming up the details and Sal’s working on the math, but it looks like Miss Thornton’s financial problems are in her rearview mirror and fading fast.”

  I looked at the Colonel. “So we can keep the inn?” I asked.

  He untied his apron. “Maybe,” he said. “Let’s see what happens.”

  I smiled at Lavender. “I guess you’ll be looking for a racecar soon,” I told him.

  “Already looking. When I find a good prospect, I want you and Dale to take a look. I always value the opinions of my official advisors.”

  An official advisor? Me?

  “You’re on,” I said.

  We closed the café and carted refreshments to the inn one carload at a time. Lavender’s news put a snap in Grandmother Miss Lacy’s step and a crack in her whip. Noon found her directing her troops around the pavilion like a blue-haired Napoleon.

  “Set these tables for refreshments,” she ordered, checking her clipboard. “And we’ll want chairs and small tables around the dance floor. We’ll set up the buffet here,” she said, pointing. “White tablecloths, please. And candles. Everyone looks better in candlelight.”

  “It’s good to have her back,” Dale whispered, struggling by with a couple of folding chairs. “I just hope she doesn’t work us to death.”

  She almost did.

  Around four o’clock she put her clipboard down and beamed. “Excellent job,” she told us. “As Lana would say, we’ve set the stage. Go home. Rest. I look forward to seeing each of you tonight. Job well done!”

  We scattered before she could find something else to decorate.

  “Miss Lana says I got to move Cleo away from the inn’s porch,” Dale said. “You want to come?”

  I shook my head. “I got to get ready,” I said, grabbing my bike. “I want to look good for Miss Lana. And Dale, don’t worry about tonight. You and Harm sound great.”

  • •

  Minutes later I charged through our front door. “Hey Colonel,” I said, blasting into the living room. He sat on Miss Lana’s Victorian sofa, his hands on his knees, his back stiff. “Is Miss Lana here? I want to ask her about a cure for stage fright, in case Harm needs one.”

  �
��Lana’s in her suite, finger-curling Jean Harlow,” he said, his voice dull. “I’m sure she’d be delighted to see you.”

  I stared at his scraggly bow tie. “Is that your Skeeter-Bay tux, sir?”

  He sighed. “It is. Lana has many wonderful talents. Estimating isn’t one of them.” He stood up. His coat billowed on his lean frame. The trousers showed two inches of ankle.

  The clock on the mantel ticked. “Sal’s mama does alterations,” I told him.

  “Thank you, Soldier, but it’s too late.” He sighed again. The Colonel’s spit and polish. He likes us to look good in a crowd.

  Poor Colonel. Adjusting to memories of a lost life is hard. Adjusting in a bad-fitting tux seemed cruel and unusual. “At least you won’t be alone, sir,” I said. “I’m opting for a vintage costume too. It’s hideous, but if anybody gives me grief, I got my karate skills to fall back on. Mary Janes can be formidable weapons on the right feet.”

  “That reminds me.” He crossed to his duffel bag and slid out a shoe box. “I saw these in Winston-Salem, and thought you might like them.”

  I opened the box.

  A pair of red-and-yellow plaid Mary Janes peeked out of orange tissue.

  “They’re perfect,” I said, kicking off my plaid sneakers and slipping them on. I hugged him long and hard. He felt like angle iron, and smelled like somebody else’s mothballs. “I just want to mention, sir, you look better in dress blues than anybody I ever seen. And since it turns out you never were actually in the military, your old uniform is costuming. Sort of.” His brown eyes snapped to attention. “Excuse me, I got to get dressed,” I said, and headed for my flat.

  Miss Lana had laid the vintage outfit across my bed. At least I have my signature plaid shoes, I thought. I picked up a note stilettoed to the jacket with Miss Lana’s hat pin:

  Never forget Bill’s advice, sugar: “To thine own self be true.” Wear what you like best. I’ll love you in whatever you choose.

  Lana.

  To thine own self be true? That’s the Shakespeare quote she meant?