The Marble Queen

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The Marble Queen Page 8

by Stephanie J. Blake


  I knew that. But there was no way I could talk to Mama about how Betty Branson’s acting like a fool in love with Esau Mooney. How she puts on her mother’s bright pink lipstick after lunch and spends all her recess time following him around, asking if she can hold his coat while he plays football. Secretly, it makes my skin prickle when Esau smiles at Betty.

  And whenever he says “Hello, Freedom,” I get tongue-tied.

  Still, I would never follow a boy around just to hold his dumb old coat. And I’d never want to be like Linda Pratt, who got caught holding Daniel’s hand behind the school.

  Mama said, “The only thing you have to worry about is your report card. Daniel’s growing up, and it’s time you grew up, too. You’d do well to remember that.”

  She hung the pressed shirt on a hanger and stretched her back. Her baby belly was poking out in the tent of a dress she was wearing.

  Higgie started to cry. Mama said, “You’ve got that Silly Putty all over your pants, Higginbotham!” She hustled him to the bathroom for some soap and water.

  I drank the rest of my milk and said to the empty kitchen, “I think I want to lie down.”

  I went straight to my room. The moment I hit the pillow, I closed my eyes.

  A little while later Mama woke me, calling out, “I have to drop off a dessert at the church, Freedom. Do you think you could stay here alone for a half hour or so and watch Higgie until Daddy gets home from work?”

  I sat up. Mama trusted me enough to watch Higgie!

  I found Mama at her vanity table. “I’ll give you a nickel for babysitting,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  She saw my tired face. “I’m sorry you had a tough day.” She pulled me close. She’s been doing that a lot lately. I kind of like this new side of Mama, so I hugged her back. She grabbed her hairbrush. “Freedom Jane, how in heaven’s name did you get this rat’s nest on the back of your head?”

  I shrugged. My head jerked with every stroke of her brush. “I was having a nap.”

  She grumbled, “I don’t know why you can’t sit nicely and do your cross-stitch, or finish that paint-by-numbers kit you got for your birthday.”

  I can never please her. If I embroider on hankies, she criticizes my stitches. Too tight, too far apart, too loose. If the stitches are perfect, she’ll say something about my dirty fingernails.

  Mama dipped into the hair bow box and pulled out two rubber bands. She put the bands in her mouth while she drew a part in my hair with her comb. Before I knew it, she’d made two perfect pigtails and tied a red ribbon around each of them.

  “There,” she said. “Don’t you look nice.” My hair felt too tight. But I didn’t tell her that or that I was getting too old for pigtails.

  “Thank you, Mama.”

  “I have to hurry now,” she said.

  I flopped down on the faded rug to watch while she put on her face. First, she drew on her eyebrows with a special pencil. The lipstick came next. When she was done, she blotted her face and neck with her fluffy pink powder puff. The fine powder floated around and settled on her dresser. Mama’s room always smells good.

  She spit on the mascara pan and pulled the brush around and around until the black glob was ready to put on her eyes. She pinched the thin brush between her fingers and opened her eyes wide. “Someday, Freedom,” she said, “I’ll be teaching you how to put on your face.” Mama brushed the mascara onto her lashes. Then she held her face still—not blinking—so the mascara wouldn’t smear. Her hair was piled up in a beehive, and she kept fussing over it. It was awful big, if you ask me. She kept pushing it down in spots, but it bounced right back.

  She attempted to wiggle into her best girdle, and I couldn’t help but smile at her funny dance. She saw me watching and grinned. “Guess I’m getting too big for a girdle.” She peeled the girdle off and said I could play for a few minutes while she went to the bathroom one more time. “But don’t you wrinkle up my dress.”

  Mama hardly ever leaves me alone in her and Daddy’s room. I carefully avoided the green dress that was laid out on her white chenille bedspread. Even Higgie knows that we aren’t allowed on Mama and Daddy’s bed.

  I examined the vials and pots and spray cans on top of the vanity. The mascara pan was still wet from Mama’s spit. I took the cap off the Strawberry Cream lipstick and smelled it. It didn’t smell like strawberries, but I put a layer on my lips and mashed them together anyway.

  Mama had a copy of Life magazine on her nightstand. Mrs. Jackie Kennedy smiled from the cover. She was wearing pearls and a lovely pink sweater, and was sitting pretty with her husband. Wouldn’t you know her pink lipstick matched her outfit perfectly? I hope I’m half as ladylike as she is when I grow up. Mr. Kennedy smiled like he had a secret. I don’t care if Mrs. Kennedy’s a Catholic and a Democrat to boot, she’s prettier than Marilyn Monroe any day of the week. Mama says Miss Monroe is trashy, and I’m not supposed to talk about her.

  I stared in the mirror and pretended I was a movie star.

  Mama had left her jewelry on the table. I tried on her thin wedding band. I clipped some sparkly earrings to my earlobes, and even though they pinched something awful, I kept them on for a whole minute.

  Bored with the stuff on Mama’s vanity, I snooped in the dresser drawers. In the bottom one I found a bundle of love letters from Daddy tied up neatly with pink ribbon. Under that was a framed picture of Mama’s daddy. Something about his eyes made me put him back facedown. In the middle drawer I found a bunch of filled-in crossword puzzles from the newspaper, along with magazine clippings about beauty and fashion tips, some embroidered hankies, and a broken watch.

  I spied a shiny black box nestled under a yellow silk nightgown. I took out the box and opened it. The hinges creaked. I held my breath. If Mama found me snooping through her private things, she’d ground me for sure.

  The bathroom door was still shut tight. I peeked into the box. You know what was inside? Mama’s wedding day pearls! I was coveting them. I couldn’t help it. They were so pretty. I picked them up. They were cold and smooth, and the clasp looked like real gold. I licked one. It tasted of Mama’s hair spray. I wiped my tongue on the edge of my blouse.

  “Mama,” I yelled, “can I try on your wedding day pearls?”

  “No!” she yelled back.

  I put the pearls in the drawer and picked up Life again.

  I tried to read, but I was itching to put on the wedding day pearls. Mostly because Mrs. Jackie Kennedy was smiling at me from the cover of that blasted magazine as if she were telling me it was okay.

  I took out the black satin box again. I would put on the pearls. Just to see how they looked on my neck. After that I would take care of Higgie like a grown-up girl. Maybe take him over to see Mrs. Zierk. Mama would never know if I put the pearls right back after.

  Well, tiny mice must have been chewing on the string, because as I was turning and admiring myself in the mirror, the whole strand slid from my neck as fast as a waterfall. The pearls rolled all over the hardwood floor and under the bed and dresser before I could stop them.

  Mama came out, screeching like a rooster. She grabbed my arm. “Those were my mama’s! The best jewelry I have! Wait till your daddy gets home!”

  I felt so sad when she said that. I’m not afraid of my daddy. He wouldn’t hurt a flea. Even when I’m bad, he’ll smile and pat the top of my head. She let go of my arm and just sat on the bed, staring at the floor. I was sad that I had hurt Mama’s feelings.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon in my room all by myself. Mrs. Nelsen from down the street came and sat in the living room with Higgie.

  The Chevy pulled up in the driveway right before supper. Daddy was late. I listened for his voice. I didn’t think he’d come in and punish me, but you never know. I stood in the shadow of my doorway so I could hear their conversation.

  When Mama told him what I’d done, Daddy didn’t say anything except “Willie, you’ve been meaning to get those pearls restrung. Now you can d
o it and wear them more often.”

  I scrambled back into my room as I heard Daddy coming down the hall. He knocked on the door and told me to come out and eat supper. When I came out to the kitchen, Mama’s eyes were all red, but she gave me a hug and told me she wasn’t mad anymore.

  “I’m sorry, Mama,” I said.

  “You’ll still have to miss The Lawrence Welk Show after supper.” She knows I love to watch the dancers and the floating bubbles.

  We ate in near silence. Daddy had three beers and acted like he’d had some others before he’d come home.

  The meat loaf was dry and my baked potato was tough, but I told Mama it all tasted good. After I helped with the dishes, Daddy said I had to go to bed before Higgie.

  I knew it was for the best.

  Daddy came to tuck me in. “With the new baby coming and all, can’t you try harder to get along with your mama?” he asked.

  “I’ll try, Daddy,” I said. And I meant it.

  He kissed me good night. His breath smelled like beer. “I know you will, Sugar Beet.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Spitting Rocks

  OCTOBER 3, 1959

  On Saturday morning I walked to the beauty salon with Mama. Higgie stayed at home with Mrs. Nelsen. I brought The Witch of Blackbird Pond. I had to write a book report about it by Monday.

  Mrs. Clark, the owner of the salon, had on a blue smock, and her hair was dyed so light it was practically pink. “My, my, Mrs. McKenzie, you sure are getting ready to have that baby! When are you due?”

  Mama smiled weakly. “About two more months.”

  She got comfortable, and Mrs. Clark pumped her foot on the bar under the chair until Mama was high enough for Mrs. Clark’s liking. She whipped a black cape up in the air, and the two of them began gossiping the minute the cape was tied around Mama’s neck. I sat in an extra chair and tried to read my book.

  While Mama got a shampoo, they gossiped about movie stars, especially Elizabeth Taylor and how she stole her friend Debbie Reynolds’s husband, Eddie Fisher. They talked about the best place to get ground beef. And what toilet paper costs these days.

  As Mrs. Clark rolled sections of Mama’s wet hair in metal curlers, she said, “I wonder if Mrs. Kroger knows about Mrs. Coyle and you-know-who?”

  Mama said, “Little pitchers have big ears”—whatever that means—and they changed the subject.

  After Mama got all settled in under the jumbo hair dryer with a magazine, Mrs. Clark turned her attention to me. “Freedom, how would you like to look more sophisticated?” she asked. Now, wasn’t that the pot calling the kettle black? I realized her pink hair was really a wig when she stuck her comb underneath for a good scratch. Her perfume smelled like bug spray. She also snapped her gum, which I know Mama can’t stand.

  “I don’t really think about stuff like that,” I said.

  Mrs. Clark poked Mama’s elbow with her comb and shouted over the dryer, “Willie, why don’t we give Freedom a permanent wave?” Mrs. Clark flipped through one of her hairdo magazines and showed me a picture of the perky Mouseketeer from TV, Annette Funicello. “Like it?”

  I couldn’t picture that hairstyle on me. Mama tipped up the dryer head. “What do you think, Freedom? You do have a date with your daddy tonight.”

  Daddy and I were going to see Sleeping Beauty at the drive-in movie theater right at sunset. I thought it would be nice to look pretty for him.

  At the drive-in, the attendant comes by and hangs a speaker on your car window so you can hear the movie. You can sit on the hood if you want. Waitresses in white uniforms bring cheeseburgers and fries and sodas and boxes of candy on trays that attach to the window. We’d agreed we were going to have popcorn and Junior Mints. I had bragged to everyone at school about it all week. I’ve been only once before.

  “You would look more mature with shorter hair,” Mrs. Clark said.

  I wasn’t convinced. But I didn’t know how to say so. Before I knew it, I was wearing a cape like Mama’s.

  For the next half hour, Mrs. Clark snipped at my hair and rolled it into tiny pink plastic curlers. I had to sit forever under that hot cape with a mixture of smelly solution on my head. My eyes burned, and my neck got terribly itchy.

  Mrs. Clark told me to sit still about a million times. Easy for her to say. Her hair didn’t smell as bad as mine. Mrs. Clark took out Mama’s curlers. She used a thin comb and a can of hair spray until she set Mama’s hair in the perfect beehive.

  It was almost lunchtime. My stomach was growling. I was sure the permanent solution was burning a permanent hole in my scalp. I closed my eyes, tired of holding my head up.

  After what seemed like another hour, the timer went ding, and I got to lean back in the shampoo chair while Mrs. Clark rinsed out my hair under the warm spray. After she dried the whole mess with a towel, I sat under the big dryer, too. When my hair was nearly dry, Mrs. Clark took out the curlers and teased and back-combed and sprayed me with the hair spray until I could taste it. She pushed on my head here and there and patted it down in the back.

  When she was done fussing, Mrs. Clark twirled my chair around so I could see myself in the mirror. “Ta-da!”

  My hair was as short and curly as a dumb old poodle’s.

  Mama clapped her hands. “I love it! Wasn’t that fun, Freedom?”

  She paid Mrs. Clark, and I pouted all the way home.

  The first thing Higgie said to me was “Pee-u, you stink.” Then he turned to Mama. “When will Daddy be home?”

  “Not until tonight. You two, go and play. I need to rest awhile.”

  I wanted to go and show my hairdo to Mrs. Zierk. Mama had decided that free piano lessons were a mighty fine deal, so I’ve been visiting with our neighbor after school, even though I’m not playing much piano.

  The thing is, Mrs. Zierk has almost as many rules as Mama, like I have to take my shoes off at the door. And I have to wash my hands before I do anything. I don’t really mind. She always has something special for us to do together. I’m learning how to knit. I’m making Mama a Christmas present. It’s a red-and-white striped afghan. Mrs. Zierk makes me sit in her hard rocking chair while I’m knitting, and if I miss a stitch, she rips out the entire row instead of letting me pick up the stitch the next time around. I have to do four rows every day I’m there. The blanket is scratchy, but I think Mama is going to love it. Red is her favorite color.

  I brought Higgie to Mrs. Zierk’s. She looked him up and down and said, “I sure don’t enjoy children who misbehave.”

  Higgie saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”

  He was good for about ten minutes. He played on the floor with a handful of wooden beads and a piece of yarn, making himself a necklace. Then he got bored. When Mrs. Zierk wasn’t looking, he took one of the precious teacups she keeps on a shelf in the dining room. Higgie had it up in the air, dangling from his pinky finger. Sure enough, the delicate handle broke clean off. There was no way to hide it.

  Mrs. Zierk sent Higgie home. She told him, “Don’t come back unless you can behave next time.”

  I like having Mrs. Zierk all to myself. She’s crocheting a whole layette with yellow, white, and light green yarn for our new baby, including tiny booties and matching caps. It’s going to be a surprise for Mama.

  We worked on our projects together as the radio blared in the background. She likes listening to old-time programs, like Ma Perkins and Young Doctor Malone, and classical piano music. It’s good to have someone to talk with—it’s also good to have someone to be quiet with. Especially someone who knows all about my troubles.

  Mrs. Zierk told me my hair was too short. “But it will grow,” she said. “How is your mama feeling?”

  I told Mrs. Zierk that I didn’t see how Mama’s belly could get any bigger.

  She chuckled.

  I did my four rows of knitting, and afterward, we sat at the piano together. I’ve decided that piano is not for me. I’d rather listen to Mrs. Zierk play. Her favorite composer is named Rachmaninoff
. When her fingers fly over the keys during a piece called “Flight of the Bumblebee,” it’s the only time I ever see her with a genuine smile that goes from ear to ear.

  Mama was folding laundry at the kitchen table as I came in the back door. Higgie was having a snack on his stool. Soon it would be time for the movie!

  “Hi, Mama!”

  “You getting excited?” She grinned.

  “I sure am.”

  “Well, get ready. I’ve laid out a clean dress for you.” I went to my room and put on my nice navy-blue dress.

  I decided to sit on the couch quietly and wait for Daddy. I wouldn’t get dirty no matter what. Higgie took his train out. He lay on the floor, saying “Choo, choo” over and over again. I put my fingers in my ears and wondered what Daddy was going to think about my hair.

  The telephone rang. Mama answered and started yelling. I knew better than to go into the kitchen. But I sneaked over and peeked in the door. It was half past seven.

  Mama was standing at the sink, rubbing her pregnant belly and shouting into the phone, “Just tell me: was Homer at Mike’s Pub or wasn’t he?”

  She hung up and called me into the kitchen. I shuffled in slowly. Mama wouldn’t look at me as she said, “Your daddy wrapped the Chevy around a tree.”

  We stood together for a minute, and I pressed my arm against her hard, warm belly. The baby inside kicked. Mama didn’t even notice. The way she had said “your daddy” hurt my ears. She sat down at the table.

  “What do you mean, Mama?”

  “He wrecked the car, Freedom.” She seemed awful tired all of a sudden. She wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. “Uncle Mort says that your daddy fell asleep at the wheel on their way home from the shop. He needs a couple of stitches in his head.” She must’ve seen how worried I was because her voice softened. “He’ll be home soon.”

  I began to cry. It was getting dark outside. The movie would be starting without me. Mama patted my shoulder. Higgie came in and crawled onto Mama’s lap. I would’ve given anything for her to sweep me onto her lap, too. But she didn’t. She put Higgie down and swept up her purse instead.

 

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