Little Altars Everywhere

by Rebecca Wells

  The blue thermos with Mama’s vodka and grapefruit juice sits on the bedspread between her and Necie. I can smell that nail polish in the clean cool air of the woods. The minute Mama opens her mouth I realize she’s had at least four drinks. Her voice is loose and deep and content and amused, and she says: Edythe, don’t you ever tell me what to do again as long as you live. Now get your little goody-two-shoes butt back into your bunk before I spank the hell out of you!

  Then Mama starts laughing. She sticks a piece of cotton between her toes so the polish won’t smear. Edythe does not move.

  Honestly, Edythe, Mama says, like she’s going to give her the most important advice in the world, If you continue acting this way, you will be unpopular for the rest of your life.

  I wish I could go someplace far away from the heart of Louisiana. But I just walk back to M’lain’s bunk and tell them what just happened. And they all laugh like hyenas.

  Mimi says, Boy, your mother sure is cool, Siddalee.

  Edythe comes back and climbs into her bed without saying a word. I can see the oyster-colored skin of her arms where they stick out of her old-lady bathrobe. I think about getting up and going to her, saying something, doing something, climbing in the bed with her and just breathing with her. I almost do it, too. I almost comfort Edythe. But the sight of her hairnet just stops me cold.

  Edythe doesn’t make a peep the rest of the weekend. It rains all day Sunday and even when the Unpopular Girls ask her to sit with them in the lodge, she says no. She just sits by the window and stares out into the woods like something real interesting might happen out there.

  That next meeting, all of Troop 55 presents Mama and Necie with a thank-you collage. Mama lets Necie take it home. She says, Necie, I’m sure you have a better place of honor in your home to display this piece of fine art.

  At the end of the school year, the two of them volunteer to lead us for another year. But the Central Louisiana Girl Scout bigwigs tell Mama and Necie they already have a more experienced person lined up. They say Mama and Necie deviated from the Girl Scout program, and that it set a bad example for girls our age to see a flagpole get bent up like that. They say that it bordered on being unpatriotic.

  One day after school is out, Mama is sitting on the window seat in the den looking at the bayou—“meditating,” she calls it. I bring her a Coke with crushed ice without her even asking, and she puts her hand on my cheek and kind of cups it there, like she used to when I was little.

  I tell her, I’m quitting Scouts next year, Mama. They’re jealous of you. That’s why they didn’t beg you to stay on. The Girl Scouts of America aren’t ready for someone like you.

  Mama twists my hair and holds it up off my neck. She studies me, then drops my hair and turns away.

  I don’t know, dahling, she sighs. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what vocation I’m cut out for. Sometimes it’s just real hard to tell.

  Sometime during the summer, I have this dream about Edythe Spevey and me. We’re on the swing that hangs from the pecan tree in our backyard. And while we’re swinging, it’s like Edythe’s body is in my body. Her legs kick out from my legs, and her head leans forward out of mine. When I move my arms forward, hers come out of them. We are swinging in this just-right rhythm. We are swinging high, flying way up, higher than in real life. And when I look down, I see all the ordinary stuff—our brick house, the porch, the toolshed, the back windows, the oil-drum barbecue pit, the clothesline, the chinaberry tree. But they are all lit up from inside so their everyday selves have holy sparks in them, and if people could only see those sparks, they’d go and kneel in front of them and pray and just feel good. Somehow the whole world looks like little altars everywhere. And every time Edythe and me fly up into the air and then dive down to earth, it’s like we’re bowing our heads at those altars and we are praying and playing all at the same time. We just keep swinging and swinging, and in my dream we are swinging at the center of the most popular spot in the world.

  Choreography

  Siddalee, 1961

  I have fallen in love with my dance teacher. I mean, I really love her. Her name is Charlene Parks, and she came back to Thornton to live with her mama after being a June Taylor Dancer on The Jackie Gleason Show. She is tall and slender and pretty, and she used to be Miss Louisiana 1954 before she went off to New York City to be famous. Her long chestnut hair is always up in a dancer’s ponytail and she has thick eyelashes and her body is perfect. No bumps on it or hair in weird places or anything. The way she moves, it’s like her legs are hooked on different at the hip than other ladies’ legs are.

  Charlene’s Central Louisiana School of the Dance is in a big old cave-like dance studio at the Garnet Parish Community Center. I take tap lessons from her twice a week and I adore it. Only I get to take tap. Not Lulu, not Little Shep, not Baylor. Just me.

  That dance studio is hot as hell in the summer, even though two huge industrial-sized fans blow like crazy all the time. Mirrors line the walls and ballet barres run the length of the room. The floor is smooth and there’s a table at one end with Charlene’s record player and piles and piles of popular records and show tunes. At the start of each class, Charlene performs a dazzling show-stopper while we sit on the floor with our mouths hanging open, pulling at our leotards, which are always crawling up our crotches. (What I wish I knew is how real dancers on stage keep from having to pull at their crotches all the time.) As hot and sweaty as it gets in there, Charlene always looks fresh.

  She dances in high-heeled tap shoes, and I think they are the jazziest things in the world. I would give anything for a pair of my own, but we only get to wear low heels. Charlene uses a lot of George M. Cohan music because it’s easy for us to count out. But we also learn numbers to “High Hopes,” and “Itsy Bitsy Teeny-Weeny Yellow Polka-Dot Bikini”—a song that my Grandmother Buggy turns off whenever it comes on the radio, because she says it’s a sin for such impurity to be on the airwaves.

  Charlene’s record player has a little knob on the side of it so she can slow the music down to a crawl for us to get the rhythm, while she calls out, Hop-shuffle-slap, hop-shuffle-slap! or whatever the step is. Once we start to catch on, she brings the music real slow-like back up to speed, and we try to actually put the steps to time. That always throws me. Just when I think I have the steps down, the music speeds up, and I forget everything I’ve learned. I try and try, but I never can dance fast enough and still get it right. But Charlene never fusses, she never pushes. She gives a lot of praise, and I work hard so I can be exactly like her. My riffs and toe-tips and touches are always a little off, though. I just cannot seem to make my left foot cooperate with my right one. It’s like there are two separate people on the different sides of my body.

  I’ve worshipped Charlene for months and I have prayed to God for her to notice me. And finally I get to be her pet, which is the best thing I could hope for in this whole town!

  This is how lucky I am: Charlene lets me visit her at her mother’s house on St. Gerard Street. They live in a big pink stucco Spanish house, the only one like it in the city of Thornton. Charlene’s room is the closest you can get to Hollywood without leaving Louisiana. It has a round bed that her mother ordered from Dallas. It’s covered with a pink satin comforter, and dozens of little pink and green satin pillows are thrown all over the place. These heavy pink and green flowered curtains hang over all the windows so they can block out the morning sun. Even so, Charlene sleeps with a sleep mask on to block out whatever sunlight peeks through.

  On the days when I get to visit Charlene’s, I wake up at six A.M.! But Mama won’t take me over there until after nine. And then Charlene is still asleep! I can’t believe she sleeps so long. I have to sit in the kitchen with their maid, Jewel, and wait and wait and wait. Then, when Jewel says it’s time, she lets me trail along while she brings Charlene her café au lait in bed. When we get to the edge of the bed, Jewel lets me hold the coffee tray. Charlene turns over and I’m standing there looking at her, makin
g sure I don’t spill a drop.

  I say, Rise and shine, Miss Sleepyhead! like Mama does.

  Jewel walks over to the curtains, and then Charlene always says, Oh Jewel, will you please just sneak those drapes open real slow-like?

  And Jewel pulls those curtains open little by little, keeping an eye on Charlene to make sure she isn’t doing it too fast. (Jewel told me one time that there was too much light for Miss Charlene in New York, and that was why she had to come back home. Jewel said she was not fixing to add any more to Miss Charlene’s heartache if she could help it.)

  Finally, Charlene sits up and lifts that sleep mask up off her eyes and uses it like a headband to push back her hair. (I have been begging Mama for weeks to buy me a sleep mask, but she says, Absolutely not! You’re too damn dramatic as it is.) Then Charlene looks over at me and smiles her big lazy just-waking-up smile and asks me, Want to climb in, Sidda?

  I hand her the coffee-milk and let myself up on the bed very gently so I won’t disturb her. The air conditioner is always pumped up to high all night long, so it is freezing in that room.

  Charlene pulls the comforter up over me and says—like it’s something tragic: Oh, Sidda! You’ve got goosebumps!

  Then Jewel goes over to Charlene’s big console stereo and says, Miss Charlene, what tunes you want to start your day with?

  And Charlene says, Oh I don’t know, Jewel, why don’t you ask our guest?

  And I blurt out, South Pacific! No, no, no, play Carousel, yeah, Carousel! Let’s listen to Julie Jordan!

  Charlene yawns and starts humming, and when Jewel has the volume just right, Charlene says, Jewel, how come you’re so good to me?

  Every single time Jewel says back: Cause your Mama gonna take care of Jewel in her old age.

  Everything in that world is pure heaven. I just get lightheaded with all the attention I get from Charlene. But then I start to worry that she’ll notice how dumb I am and not like me anymore. I just have to hold myself back from dancing and singing and turning backflips to show Charlene what a fantastic child I am so she will love me forever.

  Then my Aunt Jezie comes home from college for the summer. She moves into her old room at my Grandma Buggy’s house and immediately she starts making fun of everything Buggy does. When Buggy tells me it’s time to wash my hair, Aunt Jezie will say: Mother, the word is “wash” not “warsh.” And while we’re at it, the word is “rinse” not “rinch.” Say it, Mother: wash and rinse.

  And Buggy repeats it after Aunt Jezie, but then she goes right back to her old ways of talking.

  Aunt Jezie also thinks Buggy’s shoulders are too rounded. She will go over and slap her hand between my grandmother’s shoulder blades, and Buggy will stand perfectly straight for a minute. And Aunt Jezie will turn around and say to us, There, doesn’t Buggy look less countrified?

  It is thrilling to have Aunt Jezie home because she lets me show her all my dance routines. Mama never wants to hear anything about my lessons. When I try to show her Charlene’s numbers from The Pajama Game, Mama just says, God, I’ll be relieved when you get off this Charlene Parks jag.

  One time me and Mama got in this gigantic fight because she wouldn’t let me wear the rhinestone tiara that Charlene sent me home with because I was Queen for the Week. All of Charlene’s students get to take turns being Queen and it is a very big deal. But Mama said, That tiara is the tackiest little thing I’ve ever laid my eyes on. You will not wear that piece of trash on your head!

  Well, I am not about to let anything connected with Charlene get criticized, so I said, Mama, you’re just jealous because you can’t dance like Charlene.

  Mama said, Shut your filthy mouth.

  Then I said, Shut your filthy mouth.

  Which was not like me to say, but I just was not about to let Mama put down Charlene right in front of me. Even though it meant I couldn’t go to dance class for a week because of the marks on my legs where Mama hit me with Daddy’s cowboy belt. I simply had to defend Charlene.

  Aunt Jezie just wants to hear everything. When I get back from class, I show all my routines to her. If she has the record, she’ll stand me in front of her full-length mirror and teach me to sing the words to the dance tunes. Of course Aunt Jezie already knows about Charlene being ex–Miss Louisiana, but I am the one to tell her about The Jackie Gleason Show. I am also the one who tells her about Charlene’s sleep mask and her pink comforter and her little dotted-swiss babydoll pajamas.

  When she’s home for the summer, Aunt Jezie and I always do lots of fun things. Sometimes she’ll decide at ten o’clock at night that she absolutely has to have a root beer float. And we jump into Buggy’s Ford Fairlane and putt on over to the A&W, wearing nothing but our cotton piqué nightgowns. We order from the carhop and Aunt Jezie just dares anyone to say a word about how we’re dressed. And we ride horses early in the mornings before the sun gets scorching hot. Aunt Jezie is a great horsewoman. She teaches me dressage and grooming and how to feel what a horse is saying to you. She says, You’ve always got to be the boss. Once you let the horse take over, then you just might as well forget the whole thing.

  One time after dance class, Aunt Jezie comes to pick me up as a surprise. Instead of waiting in the car like Mama does, she walks right up to the door of the dance studio. We are just finishing up our Yankee Doodle Dandy routine with all the slaps and toe-tips, and from the corner of my eye I can see Aunt Jezie leaning against the door in her khaki pants and loafers with no socks. I pretend I don’t notice her, but I start kicking and hopping furiously to impress her with my talent.

  As soon as we finish, I run over to Aunt Jezie and grab her hand. I am panting like a dog, I’m so out of breath. I say, Come on! Come and meet Charlene!

  I pull her over to the record player where Charlene is putting stuff away. Charlene looks especially gorgeous. She has on her black leotard with a pink sash around the waist and a matching scarf in her hair. Just the way she stands with her feet kind of splayed out is a wonder to me. (I try to stand like that, so people will think I’m a professional dancer, but Mama always comes along and says, Stop standing duck-footed. You look ridiculous.)

  I say, Charlene, this is my Aunt Jezie. She goes to Ole Miss.

  Aunt Jezie says, Thrilled to finally meet. The child adores you.

  Then she holds out her hand to shake hands with Charlene, although ladies in Thornton never do that. It doesn’t faze Charlene though. She has probably seen everything in New York. She shakes Aunt Jezie’s hand and they look each other right in the eyes.

  Good to meet you, Charlene says, and she reaches her other hand up to touch her hair. Then she does a tendu and smiles.

  Aunt Jezie says, I want to thank you for the special attention you’ve been giving Siddalee. She’s my protégée, you know.

  I chime in, Aunt Jezie teaches me how to sing!

  Oh, do you sing? Charlene asks Aunt Jezie.

  Aunt Jezie laughs and says, I sing passionately to horses, dogs, and children. The general public I avoid.

  Charlene laughs back, and Aunt Jezie says, I’ve enjoyed seeing you on television. How lucky we are to have you back in Thornton.

  Charlene does a plié and says, It’s nice to be back. I think.

  Aunt Jezie is the one smiling now, and she says, Maybe we should get together sometime and have a laugh or two about this armpit of a town.

  Charlene says, I’d like that. God knows there’s enough to laugh about.

  I want to ask, There is? Then I think, Are yall going to laugh about me?

  But before I can even open my mouth, Aunt Jezie says, Ciao! and she leads me down to the car.

  She drives straight out to Pearl’s Plunge, a concrete pool with spring water, where they have a dance pavilion and all. We swim and lie in the sun all day and eat corn dogs from the concession stand. Every once in a while she reads out loud to me from this book, The Fountainhead, all about this architect who everyone misunderstands. I completely forget to ask what she and Charlene are going to l
augh about.

  One evening Mama takes Baylor and Little Shep and Lulu and me to Fred’s Hamburger Drive-In where we eat at least twice a week. She pulls the Thunderbird into our regular spot facing the wooden fence painted with a hobo eating a huge po’boy. And before Mama even turns off the motor, I spot Aunt Jezie and Charlene across the parking lot. They are sitting in Charlene’s mother’s Buick Skylark convertible with the top down. I’m so surprised to see them there together. But mainly, I can’t believe how lucky it is that we’re all here at the same time! I jump out of the car and bolt across the parking lot in their direction, my flip-flops nearly flying off my feet with each step.

  When I reach the convertible I stand by the driver’s door and say, Hey yall! We’re here having hamburgers too!

  I think, They’ll ask me to eat with them, then take me riding around afterward!

  But they just sit there looking all tan, with a basket of curly-Q fries on the seat between them. Charlene smiles and says, Hello there, Miss Sidda.

  But the way she says it, I can tell she is just being polite. You can tell she isn’t really glad to see me. Even so, I can’t stop staring at how pretty she looks in her pink short-shorts and white ruffly blouse. Mama never wears ruffles. Aunt Jezie sits in the passenger seat acting like I’m nowhere in sight. She just stares in the opposite direction from me and lets out this big sigh.

  I don’t know what to do next. So I say, Mama says brown cold drinks cause pimples.

  I don’t know what possessed me to say this and I feel like a complete ignoramus as soon as it comes out. Aunt Jezie reaches down and changes the radio station and Charlene slowly bites into a french fry.

  Then Charlene starts to say something, but Aunt Jezie cuts her off and says, Sidda, I believe I hear your mother calling you.

  I don’t hear anything, I tell her.

  Then I realize she is just trying to get rid of me.

  My palms are dented in where my fingernails cut into them. I walk back over to Mama’s car and I can feel my pride leaking out all over that blacktop parking lot. They don’t want to be seen with me. I embarrass them.