by Ruth Moose
Biology. All those dead things pickled in jars on shelves along the walls. Miss Lipe, who in class once cried over a hummingbird that had frozen before it could migrate. John Michael Jones had brought it in. She was tough, too, but that day in class she let the tears loose and we all just sat there looking at each other. We’d never seen a teacher cry before. So many memories, things I had not thought about in so long.
As I neared the high school it looked as if every light in the building was ablaze. Lit up like a starship, like it could blast off like a rocket to another planet. Otherwise it hadn’t changed a brick. Solid. It looked solid and scholarly. I bet my old locker was there, its rusty door still half-bent.
The auditorium was the same as when Malinda and I had graduated high school here. She, valedictorian; Lesley Lynn Leaford, salutatorian. Me? Just someone in the audience applauding them. I looked around for Principal Dan Cashwell. He was probably retired, as was every teacher I ever had, or over at The Oaks with Verna, but I bet Cashwell’s footsteps still rang in the hallways. He didn’t put up with sass or backsass and everybody knew it.
In the auditorium Mayor Moss, in a green satin gown that matched the gathered bunches of the same fabric draped on lattice behind her, had center stage and command of the evening. On each side of the stage were stacked baskets of green beans. Plastic? Unless Miz Mayor had insisted on fresh and organically grown. Who knew? All I knew was there were a lot of green beans in a lot of baskets on the stage. Mayor Moss handled the microphone as if she’d been born with one in her hand. Behind the footlights, as mistress of ceremonies, she announced each contestant, daughter of so-and-so, her age, grade in school, hobbies and talents.
Talents? You had to be talented to be Miss Green Bean? Like what? Sing, dance, recite an ode to the green bean? Scott had said once early in the green bean week that he could sing a parody: “My love is like a green, green bean that’s newly strung in June.” Ida Plum had put her hand over his mouth and said, “Some can sing, some can’t. You can’t. Stick to your keyboard, music man.”
The contestants were introduced one by one as they came out to display their talent: Sally Jo, Ashley Ann, Morgan Lee and more, decked out in every shade of green nature ever made. Puke green, pond scum green, dead grass green, deep black forest green, white grape green, mint parsley, sage, rosemary and cactus green. It was fifty shades of green. In shops somewhere some mamas had raided everything green. I bet there wasn’t a scrap of any kind of green fabric left in Littleboro’s Calico Cottage or in Southern Pines.
And talents? Sally Jo danced with green silk scarves. Ashley Ann sang a parody of Kermit the Frog’s song, but this version was about how easy it was to be green. Morgan Lee swirled and jumped with some green hula hoops. After that I lost count of the green talents.
When Lesley Lynn Leaford was announced I sat up and took notice. Here she was not only back in town but in the competition. I wondered why? What was it all about?
She came onstage in a silver gown that seemed molded to her hourglass figure. She was the only contestant not dressed in green. Was this to make her stand out, to make the judges notice her?
Then she put the microphone to her lips and started to sing the song Peggy Lee made famous, “Is That All There Is?” A wonderful rendition that sounded for all the world like Peggy Lee. Who knew Lesley Lynn could sing like that? I couldn’t remember her even being in some high school play or the pitiful Littleboro chorus. She must have taken voice lessons somewhere on her sojourn.
In the middle of the song about a third of the way through her performance the words kept repeating and repeating until it stopped completely, leaving poor Lesley Lynn mouthing words and only silence coming out. Aha, a glitch in the CD. Maybe a scratch and all we got was “there is, there is” over and over.
Someone in the audience shouted, “Lip synch, lip synch.”
Poor Lesley Lynn threw down her microphone and ran off the stage.
“Oops,” Mayor Moss said. “We seem to have a sound system problem. But moving right along. Our last contestant is by invitation and not eligible for the contest but she is our crowning glory for all the days of the year. A glowing example of creative thinking. Miss Original Repurpose, Reuse, Redo.”
The spotlight swung around in an arc, too high up, then down on Ida Plum. She stood center stage in a floor-length emerald-green velvet dress and hooded cape. I couldn’t believe it. Except for her white hair she could have been right out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting. She twirled and the audience roared.
The mayor continued, “Wearing her living-room drapes in a color called Fried Green Tomato Velvet, Ms. Plum’s self-designed ensemble is an example of repurposing fabrics, recycling. Her talent is just that: making something new out of something disposable, something that would have been thrown away. She completes our event … except for announcing the winner of Miss Green Bean.”
Ida Plum had saved the green velvet drapes from Mama Alice’s dining room. I thought I had tossed those drapes out when we repaired, remade and remodeled the dining room. I hung lace curtains that let in sun and light to grow pots of Boston ferns like nobody’s business.
Ida Plum waved at me, pointed her finger directly at me. Lookahere, she seemed to be saying. See what you can do with throwaway but still good stuff. Repurpose. Recycle. And it’s not even plastic.
There were hoots and laughter, then applause from the audience. The stage curtains closed and everyone waited. Some whisperings guessed the winner. Morgan Lee? Sally Jo?
The air sparked with electricity. I could feel the excitement. I wondered what Miss Green Bean would actually win besides a tiara, the one I’d actually seen elegantly displayed on black velvet and glowing under a light in the window of Bennett’s Jewelry in downtown Littleboro. It sparkled with slivers of jade (probably plastic) baby green beans that glowed like the real thing. I was impressed. Bennett’s had been in business over a hundred years. It was where you went to order your high school ring. Where was mine now? Hadn’t thought of it in years. Girls went to Bennett’s to pick out china and silver patterns when they got engaged. They “registered.” That made the engagement official, and listed in Pearl Buttons’s column in The Mess, which made it even more official.
But Miss Green Bean, what was she going to get besides the tiara? Fame? Not fortune. Hadn’t heard any sums of money mentioned, not even a scholarship or two. A trip to Atlantic City? Las Vegas?
“Drumroll, please.” Miz Mayor held up her hand and everyone waited.
The drumroll didn’t roll but sounded more scattered, a bit faint.
“Drumroll,” Mayor Moss said again, sounding a little exasperated.
The drummer did it again. And again a bit louder, but still not much of a fanfare.
Finally the curtains opened and there stood a woman in silver, so silver it was white. She had her back to the audience and slowly, slowly turned to face us. The audience gasped. The hourglass figure, the only contestant who had not been in green: Lesley Lynn Leaford in the flesh, but less of it than I remembered. She was stunning. Miz Mayor laid the gleaming tiara lightly on Lesley Lynn’s white-blond hair, then handed her a sheaf of okra stalks. The crowd hooted with laughter.
Ida Plum came from backstage, snatched the okra spears, bowed to the audience and said, “These were supposed to be mine.” The audience laughed again.
Miz Mayor regained her composure, bowed and said, “Meet our Miss Green Bean.” She gave Lesley Lynn a bouquet of green bean vines that sported baby beans and was wound with a bright green ribbon. It really wasn’t tacky, just kinda cute.
Lesley Lynn, in her silver slinky way and dress, stepped off the stage and started walking though the audience. She carried her bouquet, waved, waved and smiled a smile wide as a moon. Anybody who didn’t know would think this was just another crowning of just another beauty queen of something. And it was. Until someone in the audience shouted, “Hey, was this thing rigged? She didn’t even sing. Just lip-synched. That’s cheating.”
&n
bsp; Another voice piped up, “Yeah and she’s not even wearing green.”
Then others in the crowd called “Fake, fake, fake” and “Uncrown her” and “Who judged this blankety-blank thing?” Several people stood and started to leave.
A couple of renegade boys hopped up on the stage, grabbed the baskets of green beans, threw them by handfuls into the audience where people caught them and threw them back at Lesley Lynn, who held both hands up to shield herself. “Help,” she yelled. “Those things hurt.” She hiked her dress up to her crotch and ran up the aisle. I heard the auditorium doors, then the front doors of the school, slam behind her. That was some fast exit.
The boys onstage continued to toss beans until they’d emptied the baskets into the audience.
“They aren’t even real,” said a large man in a red-striped shirt. “They’re plastic.”
“You can’t cook ’em, you can’t eat ’em. All you can do is throw ’em,” a tall woman in a denim dress said. She sounded disgusted at the whole idea and handed her beans to the person beside her. “Here,” she said. “You do with them what you want to.”
A skinny boy in droopy cammo pants stood up and threw beans into the crowd. I could see his crack as he jumped up and down, throwing beans.
“Food fight,” someone called to him. Then someone else shouted, “Food fight!” The air was suddenly green with small projectiles.
Where was the mayor? Onstage I saw she had quickly tried to wrap herself in as much of the maroon velvet stage curtains as she could pull close to give herself some protection. No green bean missiles were going to touch our gal.
I dodged green beans, pulled some from my hair and ran up the steps onto the stage now greenly littered with beans. They crunched under my feet.
“Are you okay?” I asked the shivering and shaking Miz Mayor.
She nodded her head yes, wrapped herself tighter. “I never thought anything like this could happen in Littleboro. It’s so peaceful. So quiet.”
“Only on the outside,” I said pulling her toward the rear exit doors. Behind me the melee was in full swing of beans, beans, beans everywhere. It had turned into a game and among the laughter were shouts of “I gotcha” and “Bet you can’t bean me.”
If Ossie had been in town he would have been in the middle of it, calling for order, etc. But Ossie was in Southern Pines being toasted and roasted. He might have even been hoisted to the shoulders of some of the men in the audience and hauled outside to be dumped on the ground and assisted to his police car. Would he have teargassed the citizens of Littleboro? Did he even own tear gas? Anything for riot control? One would think Littleboro would be the last place on earth one would ever be needing such. Not in this quiet, sleepy, backwoods burg.
Originally I had headed backstage to look for Ida Plum but I ran into the mayor first. I wanted to find Ida Plum for my ride home. I did not relish walking alone in the dark streets of Littleboro tonight. When I was growing up, Mama Alice kept her Gone With the Wind lamp burning in the hall outside my childhood bedroom. I slept with my door open so I could call out when I had a bad dream. I had them often as a child and even now sometimes as an adult. I put little night-lights in all the guest bedrooms at the Dixie Dew, not only for safety’s sake, but for others, like me, who just needed a little bit of light to get through the dark.
Ida Plum was nowhere in sight.
“I’m walking,” I told Miz Mayor at the stage door, “or I would offer you a ride home.”
She had pulled part of the stage curtain loose from the ceiling and whatever held it, then rewrapped it around herself. She looked like a fuzzy maroon mummy wearing green shoes. “Mr. Moss or our driver—someone—is here with the car,” she said, and disappeared through the backstage door and down the steps. I heard car doors open and close, the soft purring of a very expensive motor start up, pull away, then get fainter as its taillights disappeared in the night.
“Wait,” I had started to call after Mayor Moss as she went out to the back parking lot. I wanted to ask if I could snag a ride home in her fancy smancy Rolls, but too late. The car was gone. I’m not the type to ride in a Rolls-Royce anyway. And it’s hard for me to ask for anything. Mama Alice raised me to make do or do without. I pride myself on being a do-it-myself person. Only in desperation do I send out a cry for help, and I have been in a few desperate situations where I had to cry. But I reminded myself the walk to the Dixie Dew was only a few blocks, it wasn’t raining, and after all, this was Littleboro.
Maybe I could still catch Ida Plum. I started to ramble through hanging dusty drapes and thick curtains that were probably the originals when the Littleboro High auditorium was built back in the dark ages. No Ida Plum. No one backstage at all. Just pieces of old sets, flats and props. All the mothers who earlier had helped daughters get dressed must have packed their makeup kits, hair dryers, curling irons and steamers and hauled off home. The place reeked of silence. And it was spooky.
I called, “Ida Plum. Ida. Where are you?”
I pulled out my cell phone, punched it on. Nothing. The screen stayed dark. I tried again. The battery must be dead. Dead, dead, dead. I put it back in my pocket.
“Ida Plum,” I called again.
Surely she couldn’t have gotten out of her “curtains” costume so fast. I heard only my own footsteps in the dark and semi-dark. God, this place was spooky. I pushed aside a mass of rotten curtains half-hanging from the ceiling and called again. “I. P. Duckett? Where are you?”
No answer. I saw something or someone on the floor beside a tall stack of chairs. It looked like something rolled up in a rug. Something big and bulky enough to be a body. A dead body. “Please, please, please don’t let it be Ida Plum,” I said as I stood there. Please, please no. She had no enemies. Who would want to hurt her? Had she been so close to me that someone would do something to her to get at me? Me, who had done nothing.
I reached down and tried to turn the rolled-up something over. It wouldn’t budge. Then I tried again to roll it over and one end of the rug flapped loose, lay open. I unrolled it a bit more to make sure there was no body, nowhere. It was just a rug rolled up and pushed aside. Nothing and nobody in it. I scolded myself for letting my imagination even suspect such a thing. Whew. The dark and the quiet were getting to me. And the spooks.
Ida Plum was nowhere around. Maybe she had gone home in her “curtains.” Gone home the same way she had come, in her own car. When the melee started she’d probably gotten the hell out of there like any sensible person would do. Not like me, hanging around a deserted backstage, poking around where anything could happen. Not someone alone after everyone else had left. A prime target for danger. For anything.
I took the back way out from the stage to a deserted parking lot. People sure could get out of places fast when something was over. I thought of all those plastic green beans littering the auditorium floor and seats and probably even in the light fixtures. A night to remember. Was Pearl Buttons in the audience? Would she capture this event for the environs, the historians of Littleboro? The night of the Littleboro riot and great green bean fight.
Our poor Mayor Moss. She had planned such a unique event, a night to make history. And it sure had. Plus she lost her cool. For the first time I’d seen beneath her sleek exterior, all her polish and poise. Would she pick up her husband, her turtle and leave Littleboro in her Rolls just when she had begun to make her mark? And would Littleboro be better off? Or worse? We certainly had lacked for innovation and forward thinking in the past and look where that had gotten us. Same old, same old. Staid, stuck in the boonies of the past. “Progressive” was not a word in many Littleborians’ vocabularies. But was that a bad thing?
I took a deep breath, told myself I was all grown up and this was Littleboro, and I bravely headed toward home. I had walked these five blocks home from school a million miles and too many times to count. In the daylight though. To and from. First Littleboro Elementary, grades one through seven, then Littleboro High, grades eight to twel
ve, where I met Malinda. Our lockers were side by side. Mine was rusted and caved in and the door wouldn’t close all the way. Malinda painted hers purple. I did mine in wild pink. In those first years of integration the school officials didn’t care what we did as long as we didn’t create a disturbance. They must have heard and read reports from other school systems and held their breaths. There were few black students in Littleboro and they were mostly like Malinda, smart and friendly. I never saw her without a smile, a ready laugh. I was lucky to be her best friend, sorry we had those empty lost years when we hadn’t kept in touch.
Now, even in the half dark, getting darker fast, my feet still knew all the cracks in the sidewalks even if I couldn’t see them, knew the places raised by tree roots growing underneath. I walked past the gym, the football field, past the tennis courts and wondered who used them now that Father Roderick was dead. I had a momentary shiver remembering how I had been the one to find his body. Poor man. So young, so darn good-looking in his tennis garb, such a bright future ahead in the Catholic Church.
I had always felt afraid walking these streets home, though I had not done it at night very much and I couldn’t remember ever walking it alone. After football games there was a lot of noise, cars roaring and popping down the streets, people still celebrating a win or just because it was Friday night and they were seventeen and had a car with Daddy’s gas in it.
Now there was only quiet. Too much quiet and too many shadows. I didn’t remember it being so dark, so few streetlights. Shadows from the willow oaks, always slow to leaf out, seemed large and dark and full of danger. I remembered the scene in the movie To Kill a Mockingbird, where Jem and Scout are walking home from a school event and Scout gets attacked by Bob Ewell but rescued by Boo Radley, who was played by a young Robert Duvall. Oh where was my Boo Radley Duvall when I needed him?
How many Bob Ewells were out there in the night? Not to mention Mrs. Butch Rigsbee. I had heard she’d been given a citation and paid a fine for shooting balloons at the fairgrounds. She’d claimed target practice but word was Ossie charged her with destroying property and disturbing the peace. Why had he not arrested her and put her in jail? What would it take to make this man do his job? It seemed to me he just sloughed it off, shrugged and looked the other way, when he could have been serious and done his bit to keep Littleboro clean and quiet.