The Calamity Club by Kathryn Stockett - 27

W hen I was about Meg’s age, I went to the county fair and watched a bright yellow machine churn my mother and father and Frances forty feet in the air on a golden wheel. There hadn’t been room for me on the seat, so I’d said I’d wait for the next turn. As they waved down at me from their swaying car, I went and peeked over a freshly painted fence, and I saw the whole contraption was run by a decrepit coughing engine, not much bigger than the one in our Maytag agitator and what looked like a rotten rubber band. That close, I could see the poles holding up the wheel shuddering and rattling under the weight of the wheel. I asked the toothless man working it, “Has this thing ever fallen?”

He smiled and said, “Aw naw. Not since January.”

Charlie and I had hardly spoken since our argument, night before last, and I’d had plenty of time to brood over it. This morning, finally getting my wits back, I walked to town to send a telegram, informing Mrs. Tartt there’d been a change of plans: DANCE CLUB NO LONGER OPTION STOP RETURN HOME TO SELL HOUSE . The best word to describe the heaviness in my body and the ache in my throat was heartsick. I’d cried that morning for everyone involved.

Before I sent the telegram, I went by the post office. Mrs. Nutt winked and gave me an envelope, marked To: Birdie From: Jack , dated this morning. She knew we didn’t have a telephone anymore and she let us pass notes between us like schoolchildren playing post office. Had to go to Jackson this morning. Can I pick you up Friday, 6 o’clock? Wish it wasn’t a week away . Love, Jack. It felt like a hand was squeezing my heart inside my chest. Yes , I wrote on the bottom and handed it back to Mrs. Nutt, even though I knew I might be taking the train home two days before that, next Wednesday. I doubted Jack would drive the two hundred miles to come see me in Footely, or not more than once.

As I was leaving the post office, I came face-to-face with—“ Garnett ,” I blurted out.

“Birdie Calhoun.” She smiled, tight white irritation around her mouth. “You’re still in Oxford.”

“I’m leaving soon,” I said and started to go on but then I stopped. Everything I wanted to say to her was on the tip of my tongue. You are sick, you are jealous, you are a liar. Meg called you “The Big Phony,” you know that? I wanted to slap her with her own judgy religion. I wish I could see your face when God decides where you should go.

“Birdie, please excuse yourself,” she said, trying to get past me. Her thick bare lips made a sticky sound as they opened and closed.

I decided to do something very unchristian. I decided to rub it in.

“Garnett, I wanted to thank you for helping Meg get adopted,” I said. “She is so lucky. She must be very happy with her new family.”

Garnett nodded and tried to step around me again, but I didn’t budge.

“She’s probably over the moon to be back in school too. You know, after you pulled her out and all.” I smiled back at her. “Can’t hurt that they’re very well-off either. Least, that’s what I heard.”

She stared at me with a cool smile on her face. “Which makes it even more of a shame that it’s not going to work out.”

“What?”

“Frances didn’t mention it?” She tsked and looked so sorry. “The inspector and I spoke and we’ve decided that it would be best to return Meg to the Orphan.”

“What—why?”

She shook her head. “I tried to tell them, Meg’s a bad apple. A young, impatient couple just isn’t a good fit for a girl with as many problems as Meg.”

“What problems?” She just stared at me. “Can you do that? Legally?”

“There’s a trial period for every adoption, a girl’s not legally theirs until after the first eight weeks. It’s in the paperwork. For situations just like this.”

It hit me then—that’s why Garnett had said there was “no point” in writing the welfare letter. I was so stunned I could barely form a sentence.

“When are you … when will you bring her back?”

“The inspector’s very busy, but I say the sooner the better. The longer they wait, the harder it’ll be on Meg.” And almost to herself, she said, “Meg’s always been a dirty child. Her mother never taught her proper hygiene.” Then she looked at her wristwatch and said, “By the way, Frances hasn’t signed up for her volunteer hours. Let her know if she keeps that up, she’ll have to speak to the senior committee.” This time she managed to move around me in the doorway and walked inside, leaving me holding the door open.

I’d forgotten to tell her that Frances’d left town, but I didn’t care—all I could think was Garnett’s coming for Meg. It felt like that day I’d watched the sputtering engine hoist my family in the air, the panic of knowing their lives hung by rusty poles and rotten rubber bands. I needed to get home now. I needed to talk to Charlie.