by Helen Ellis
Bitty Jack pulled Stewart’s arm. She tugged at his leg. She huffed and she puffed. “See, no reaction.” The blood on his face curdled her backbone.
Nicole ran from the room.
Bitty Jack wiped Stewart’s blood away to find a very small cut. Careful not to get blood on her clothes, she bandaged his head with the same roll of athletic tape she used to secure a clean, balled jock strap in Stewart’s open mouth.
Bitty heard Nicole loose in the locker room. She pictured what she heard: Nicole tearing down the Bama Boosters’ banner, dragging it between the long lines of benches. Together, the girls rolled Stewart tight in the banner. They put their feet under his back and rolled him, vertically, up the side and into the costume crate.
Nicole fastened the combination lock. Bitty Jack locked the door to his dressing room.
“Why’d you have to hit him so hard?”
“He’ll be fine,” called Nicole, who was already at the players’ benches, almost vaulting into Big Al’s gray legs.
“Those are huge on you.”
“Does it matter? Come on, help me before the players show up.”
Bitty Jack adjusted the costume suspenders. The elastic was bent where Stewart had worn the buckles for years. To Bitty Jack, it was obvious that this Big Al was an imposter. Nicole made the mascot’s giant eyes vacant. The elephant skin hug loose on Big Al’s appendages. The belly vest helped. The feet were like big slippers, one size fits all. But Bitty Jack was right when it came to the gloves. They were noticeably smaller, like cotton swabs sticking out of two toilet roll tubes. Big Al’s head was clearly too much for her. Nicole wobbled as she walked. She held her arms out for support.
Bitty Jack said, “You’ve got to entertain the crowd for hours.”
From inside the suit, Nicole’s voice was muffled. “Don’t worry about it.”
“You’ve got to spot the cheerleaders.”
“I can do it.”
“Are you sure?”
Nicole put her elephant arms on her elephant hips. Annoyed, she cocked her elephant head, which sent her stumbling sideways until she regained her balance on the Coca-Cola machine.
Bitty Jack hoped she could trust Nicole to follow through. It was important that Nicole make it onto that float. It was important that Sarina get what she deserved.
“I’ll lead you outside,” Bitty Jack said and touched Nicole’s shoulder.
“Don’t,” said Nicole. “I need to get ready. Leave me alone, so I can get ready.”
Bitty Jack took two tissues from her backpack and wiped the blood off the tiles she’d tracked out with her shoes. Stewart would be okay. He’d wake up soon enough. When Nicole was unmasked, he’d be searched out. For sure. Bitty Jack flushed the tissues and left Nicole, in her ex-boyfriend’s alter ego, by herself in the locker room.
Walking through the players’ tunnel, Bitty Jack heard the echos of her rubber-soled shoes against the cement. The daylight streamed in. Her nerves invaded her veins. She tried to step softer, but there was no point. The fans were filling the stadium. The tunnel was dormant, save for the rustle of crepe paper in the wind.
The royal court float was parked, at the mouth, for presentation. It was so tall, Bitty Jack didn’t know how Nicole could possibly mount it. The twenty-foot flatbed was hooked like a trailer to a regular truck. The wooden platform was built three feet off the flatbed and left hollow so that holes could be cut to secure the big props. This year, props included eleven stakes with papier-mâché black-and-gold Vanderbilt helmeted heads. Plus poles for the Homecoming court to hold onto as they stood at the corners. Planted firmly, in the center, were the legs of the throne where Sarina would sit only after being announced. Everything was covered in chicken wire and crepe paper. The float was large, but very delicate. no smoking signs were posted along the tunnel. One cigarette ash blown too close, and the float would be ruined. Up in flames, in an instant, would be two weeks of work.
Bitty Jack noticed a rectangular hole cut in the back of the float platform. She looked inside and saw the maze of poles and pulleys and the legs of the throne. Bitty Jack thought she was skinny enough to take a closer look. She was curious what it would feel like in the stomach of that vehicle. What ninety thousand cheers would sound like on the fifty-yard line.
Bitty Jack placed her hand into the platform and felt the coolness of its shade. She stuck her head in. Then half her body followed. Her backpack got stuck, so she had to empty the contents to pull it in behind her. It was dark and dank in the flat bed, but a place she’d never been. Bitty Jack was curious. She explored and set up camp inside the queen’s royal ride.
Half an hour later, fifteen minutes to kick-off, Bitty Jack made her way to the president’s box. Stewart had given her his parents’ season tickets, which the Steptoes had pre-purchased, $25,000 per season for the next seven years. Bitty Jack had not seen a game this semester. Not since the Chickasaw boycott. Not since the boycotters would be occupying that box.
By the time Bitty reached it, the Vanderbilt team was taking the field. They did a lap, then took their benches. All heads turned toward the Sony JumboTron screen.
The guard outside the president’s box took Bitty’s ticket and glanced in her backpack for guns, knives, or Mace. She passed approval, but the guard didn’t open the door right away. He was mesmerized, as was the crowd, by Paul “Bear” Bryant’s voice coming out of the Sony JumboTron.
The dead coach’s gravely words were the only noise within the stadium. Bear Bryant was like God and when he returned, in whatever shape or form, witnesses were respectful. They shut their mouths and paid attention.
The Sony JumboTron could be heard three miles outside the stadium. It wasn’t unusual for drivers to park their cars or for McDonald’s cashiers to bow their heads in respect.
Since Bear Bryant’s death, this had happened every year: techies edited his speeches, pep talks, and interviews and created a retrospective of his twelve nationally ranked number-one teams, narrated by himself, the best coach that ever lived.
There were tears in people’s eyes, including the guard’s at the president’s box. But the spell was broken when an Elephas maximus appeared on the giant screen and blew a noise out of its trunk that shook everyone in their seats.
The crowd went crazy and the Alabama players were announced one by one.
Bitty Jack made her way through the president’s box toward a seat at the front of the room. All the hotshot alumni avoided or ignored her. They couldn’t do much more than that. Bitty Jack had a ticket. She had a right to be there.
Sarina’s win had earned a prime viewing spot for her mother. Mrs. Summers was seated to the right of the Hicks. She kept nudging Mrs. Hicks. Whispering in her ear as if vying for the spot of her new best friend.
Mrs. Hicks was not responsive. She stared at the field as she had stared across the cemetery. She looked like a skeleton Mrs. Summers could snap in two.
The model of impartiality on his way to the snack bar, Mr. Hicks asked Bitty Jack how Stewart was getting along.
“He’s fine,” said Bitty Jack. “But I couldn’t find him before the game.”
“There he is.” Mr. Hicks gestured toward the football field. Big Al was seated on the twenty-yard line, pretending to row a boat as the band played the theme to Hawaii Five-O. “That’s a move I haven’t seen.”
“Is it?”
Mr. Hicks nodded and Bitty Jack excused herself to take a seat in the front corner.
The head referee blew his whistle and what followed was nothing Bitty Jack had not seen before. The stadium was sold out. The fans rowdy, their cheers rising up, pouring into the president’s box windows, opened to feel the cool autumn air.
No one sat beside Bitty Jack, but she was constantly distracted by the gossip growing louder, and mean-spirited rumors deadening her dad.
Mrs. Summers took a moment to tap her on the shoulder. She said, “See what happens when you fuck with my family?”
Bitty Jack refused to look
at Mrs. Summers. She rummaged through her backpack for binoculars and Chap Stick.
Throughout the first half, Nicole held her own. She found ways to take breaks from the heat and inevitable physical exhaustion. She performed the Hawaii Five-O move to songs that had nothing at all to do with the sea. She sat by the cooler and passed out Gatorade. Laying on her back, she made snow angels on the AstroTurf. She peed doggy-style on the Vandy Commodore.
But something was unnatural about the way Nicole moved. Her right arm never bent. It was as straight as a stick.
Mrs. Hicks noticed this too.
“Do you see it?” she said above a normal speaking tone. “There’s something not natural! Look at Big Al. He’s not right. Can’t you tell?”
The alumni were doing a good job of dismissing her. Mrs. Hicks was being treated like a bad child who, if no one encouraged her, might finally behave.
Bitty Jack swung her binoculars in Mrs. Hicks’s direction. She caught a close-up of Mrs. Summers’s jaw wagging, her foundation two shades darker than the skin on her neck. She was still badgering Mrs. Hicks, who had taken a pair of binoculars for herself. Constantly turning the focus finder, Mrs. Hicks aimed her field glasses toward the action on the green. Her posture was intent. She shrugged off Mrs. Summers. She moved her binoculars every time Big Al moved.
She couldn’t possibly know. Bitty Jack began to worry.
The second quarter ended. Bama, 12. Eggheads, zilch.
The players left the field and the Million Dollar Band members marched out of the bleachers. Their capes blew behind them. The Rifle Line ladies propped white guns on their shoulders. Mr. Hicks moved from his seat to an announcer’s microphone. As a local celebrity and personal friend of the president, Bert Hicks often introduced the halftime festivities.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN.” His voice took a rich tone. “THE PROUD MEN AND WOMEN OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ALABAMA MILLION DOLLAR BAND!”
The crowd went wild.
With their bodies, the musicians spelled Bama Bound in cursive. The sax players twisted to jazz up the routine. Drummers beat the rear. Flutists tooted at the front. The Color Guard waved giant flags of red and white. The Crimsonettes did splits. The feather on the drum major’s hat blew easy in the breezy. All was as it should be until Big Al jogged past the mellophones and attempted to take the drum major’s position.
“AL!” Bert Hicks jokingly warned.
“Al!” the crowd parroted.
Big Al bumped the drum major, but the drum major played on. Everyone laughed and Bert Hicks’s chuckle, too close to the mike, sent a screeching sound over everyone’s heads. Yet, good old Big Al gave it the old college try.
Bitty Jack focused her binoculars on what Nicole was using as a drum major’s baton. It was an inch wide and made of wood. Half out of her sleeve, one end tucked within Big Al’s cuff.
As the band played “My Home’s in Alabama,” they formed a line to encircle the field. Mr. Hicks followed the cheerleaders’ lead. “ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLL . . .”
“Tide! Roll!”
“ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLL . . .”
“Tide! Roll!”
The male cheerleaders threw their partners high in the sky. Funny enough, Alabama male cheerleaders were not considered homosexuals. They were athletic and could kick any antagonizer’s ass.
“There she is!” cried Mrs. Summers.
Bitty swung her binoculars toward the home-team players’ tunnel. Sarina was being helped onto the royal court float. She wore a bright blue gown that, even in the shade, gave off a thousand sparkles. Her hair was poofy, from White Rain, thicker than what could possibly be natural. The sun parted the clouds as if it knew this was her moment. Her skin was so porcelain, Bitty wondered if she’d burn.
With the aid of a stepladder, Sarina placed one high-heeled shoe onto the platform. She stepped gingerly across the crepe paper, careful not to catch a heel in the chicken-wire carpet. In the center of the float, she steadied herself by holding onto a slim metal pole. As tradition dictated, she would not take her throne until Bert Hicks broadcast her name.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, PUT YOUR HANDS TOGETHER. THE UNIVERSITY OF ALABAMA IS PROUD TO PRESENT THIS YEAR’S HOMECOMING QUEEN AND HER COURT!”
The crowd rose to their feet as they had during the national anthem. The truck motored slowly, carting the float toward the center of the field. The Sony JumboTron featured Sarina’s tall face, her eyes like flying saucers, her teeth like church doors.
Mrs. Summers turned to everyone behind her, squealing with delight. “Can you stand it? Can you stand it?”
But Big Al stole the scene.
Nicole stood on the fifty-yard line. With that excuse for a baton and her other hand raised with it, she led a spirit shout-off between the three home sections. “We’ve got spirit, yes we do, we’ve got spirit, how ’bout you?!” She turned to her right and the student section cheered. “We’ve got spirit, yes we do, we’ve got spirit, how ’bout you?!” She spun to her left and alumni went nuts. The Bama fans made more noise than them all. We’ve got spirit, yes we do, we’ve got spirit, how ’bout you?! Nicole made a circle and led a Crimson Wave.
As the float got nearer, she gave signals to the driver like she was guiding a 747 in for a landing. A little to his left, now steer a little to the right. That’s it. Nice and easy. Straight ahead. Keep her steady as she goes.
Bert Hicks said, “AL . . .”
The crowd joined in, “Al!”
Sarina waved to Big Al, sure that Stewart was inside him. Bitty Jack cringed as Sarina blew him a dark, full-lipped kiss. She made a grand gesture. Holding her French-manicured hand in front of her mouth for three seconds. Holding that pucker for three seconds more. She kept her hand hovering in Big Al’s direction until he responded by catching that kiss and holding it ever-so close to his heart.
To catch that kiss, the big wooden baton had to slip back into Nicole’s elephant skin. This made Nicole’s arm rigid again. She looked gawky in motion, running toward the float as the truck driver set his gear shift to Park.
She looked gawky despite that unbending arm. Every time a foot slapped the field, the Big Al costume seemed to spring off her limbs. The gray skin sagged at the knees and elbows. Nicole’s pace was tipsy from the weight of the head.
The crowd ate it up.
Mrs. Hicks cried, “It’s wrong!”
“There’s nothing wrong,” snapped Mrs. Summers. “Keep your comments to yourself. You’re ruining the moment!”
“The hands.” Mrs. Hicks thrust the binoculars between Mrs. Summers’s bosoms. “For God’s sakes look at the hands!”
“AL . . .” Mr. Hicks bellowed into the microphone.
“Al!” cried the crowd, drowning Mrs. Hicks out.
The stadium shook with laughter as Nicole did her damnedest to mount the royal float. She locked her fingers into the chicken wire on top of the platform. She swung her hips left and right in an attempt to get one of her elephant legs up. The Homecoming court jiggled, but held onto their poles. Unsure of what her ex-boyfriend was after, Sarina let go of her pole and took two steps backwards. The insides of her knees pressed against the seat of the throne and the wooden legs wobbled enough for Bitty Jack to get nervous.
“Stay put,” Bitty whispered.
Bert Hicks said, “BIG AL! . . .”
“Al!” the crowd chanted. “Al! Al!”
Nicole was finally on the float.
Mrs. Hicks cried, “Not Al!”
Five feet from Sarina.
“Not Al! That’s Not Al!”
Nicole started to charge, ripping off the mascot’s head, her long blond hair streaming out for all to see, the bad-ass baton sliding out of her sleeve.
The ax was in the air and Sarina’s mouth opened. The cameras were still rolling and everyone’s eyes were seized by the Sony JumboTron screen.
Mrs. Summers said, “What the hell-fire devil is this?”
Mrs. Hicks kept screaming, but only Bitty Jack believed.
/> “It’s my daughter! It’s my daughter! I SHOULD KNOW MY OWN HANDS!”
Before anyone could answer, Nicole tackled Sarina. The two hit the throne and all four of its legs gave out.
It was as if Big Al had a grenade in his pants. Within seconds, the float went up in flames. The heat against his back window got the driver out of the truck. The male cheerleaders ran to rescue the court, their arms outstretched to coax the two who were too scared to jump and save their skin.
Although the fire department was thirty feet outside the stadium, the firefighters had been watching the halftime show from a stadium gate. They wore only their T-shirts and heavy rubber pants. They had to run to get the truck, to get their uniforms, to get in gear.
But their efforts would be pointless. The float was too wide for heroic attempts. Already the center of the float was a crackling inferno. Big Al’s costume burned like a marshmallow. Sarina’s ball gown fueled the fire.
The crowd was eerily silent. Eyes not on the field but on the Sony JumboTron. No one moved or came up with bright ideas. There wasn’t a single extinguisher in sight. The Rifle Line ladies had no one to shoot. The sprinklers were turned on, but only sprayed at ankle level. The flames enveloped the bodies. Forever and ever, Sarina would be caught in the death-grip of what once constituted Nicole’s sun-kissed arms.
Over the loudspeaker, Mr. Hicks was struck speechless.
Mrs. Summers, shell-shocked.
It all happened so fast.
Mrs. Hicks broke first and rushed to her husband, yanking his arm, her daughter’s name garbled in her throat. The crowd looked up at the president’s box. Mrs. Hicks’s cries blasted through her husband’s microphone. Every syllable cut air. Each bawl was like a bullet.
She was out of control, flailing her limbs, running toward those behind her in the president’s box.
But then someone took charge.
Mrs. Summers hooked Mrs. Hicks’s neck with one fleshy, fat arm. She locked her other arm around her chest. She said, “You’re not going down there.”
Mrs. Hicks bucked.
But Mrs. Summers kept her in hand. She closed her eyes as if to keep alive the grand picture of Sarina that had been so publically praised just a few instants ago. She kept hold of her emotions and of Mrs. Hicks and of time. It was if she was giving the fire a few more minutes to leave less of a mess of her now charbroiled child.