The Calamity Club by Kathryn Stockett - 4

I never had a real sister. It was just me and Mama. We lived about twenty miles outside Oxford in a little house called A Rental, which means it costs every month, you don’t just pay the one time. Before that we had been in a one-room up in Memphis. We left when I was four because Mama said a big girl needs her own bed. I have been known to kick in my sleep.

Mama got lucky answering a thing in the paper. Her new job was to clean and look after the kids for a rich family, the Coopers, that had moved to Mississippi and picked up a plantation for cheap. Since they were Yankees, they did not know they were supposed to hire a colored to do that type of household labor. Mama had impressed the lady in her letter about how she could teach her two little girls good table manners and which fork to use and not to say ain’t since a person picked that up around here. Mama said a girl picks up ain’t easier than ringworm.

Living out in the country, we could run a clothesline from magnolia tree to mule hitch like proper people now. There were cotton fields on all sides of us, and though the house needed a paint job, it was wired up with lights and even piped with water so Mama said it would do fine. The yard around it was just weeds, but we picked us up some gravel from the road to make a path to our door.

Mama called it a brand-new life. She had been working up in Memphis at a dance place called Paradise Hall. It sounded like fun to me, but she said she was Sick. And tired. Of working long nights. She said she was ready to start fresh.

I remember our house in the cotton field, every nail in a board. It came already set up with a few kinds of furniture. A blue dinette set with all the pieces matching. Our beds were in two different rooms. Mama had her a little wood dressing table with a mirror attached so she could sit and curl her hair. Her hair was short and dark, just below her ears. She cut it herself. Mama could whip up a outfit right out of the magazine too, generally a cut-on-the-bias deal. She always was going on about a dress cut on the bias. She had the kind of legs that made men whistle and say, Look at those gams! In the sitting room, we had us a radio set, and my mama knew every dance there was. She would put a station on and teach me the Charleston, the Big Apple, the waltz, and the boogie-woogie. We whirled around on that blue rug until the room spun even when I was holding still. Lord, those were the days, whirling with clothespins fastened to our hems to make our skirts twirl higher.

When the old lady who rented us the house asked, Where’s your husband? Mama said, He’s with Jesus now. He died in the war. And then Mama nodded, she did not shake her head or fiddle with her buttons because I am telling you she was good.

If I asked where my daddy was, Mama took a deep breath and said, He left . Like that, two words, close the book, end of story. She would hug me in a way that said, Please don’t ask me any more questions, Meg.

I was curious, though. There was not a picture of him anywhere. I got to a age where a girl wants to know things like that.

Mama was not the type to sit still, so I would follow her around asking, Where did he go to? Was he tall or short? What color was his hair? Dark like yours or was it near white like mine?

She would say, Please, Meg, I’m doing the best I can.

She was all the time saying that.

When I turned nine, she finally said she would answer what she could just this one time and I should get all my questions out at once. I learned he was medium height, had medium-color hair, grew up in Carroll County, and was in the army when they met. He left when I was a baby.

Did he hold me? As a baby? I am mad now I asked that when I could have asked more important things like his actual name or why he left or was he ever coming back.

She shook her head. No, he never got to hold you as a baby.

Does he know my name is Margot Louise and Meg for short?

Yes, he knows. Louise came from his side of the family.

Why don’t you like to talk about him? Was he mean or something?

She said, No, he wasn’t mean. But it hurts to think about him. You’ll understand it when you’re older.

I wanted to know more. That is just my nature. But I did not want to hurt her anymore.

I know my mama tried to be patient with me, but Lord would I hear it if I didn’t do something. She would say, I am only going to ask you this once, Margot Louise , but that was not true one bit. She would ask as many times as it took and was all the time telling me to comb that tangled hair of mine and wash my face and use a tooth powder I did not like the taste of. Mother Mary and Joseph, Meg, you look like a hobo. This time use soap. She was what you call petite in French but do not let her size fool you. When she got to scrubbing things, she had more arms than a octopus. And when it came to manners, do not even get me started.

When she was a little girl, she worked alongside her mama, cleaning houses and serving luncheons and clubs, and she learned how to do things right . She taught me to put my napkin in my lap and eat what she called European style where you do not switch hands with the fork. She found a magazine picture of a silverware set with twenty-seven pieces. We sat and cut every spoon knife and fork out with the kitchen scissors. Those forks were hard to cut on account of all the prongs. Then she would slice out a meal from the cooking page like a fish and asparagus with sauce or baked oysters on the half shell and a drink. Oh we had us some good magazine meals. She would say, Alright, set the table. Which fork which spoon which glass. And I would have to pick and then sit down and pretend to eat it. I thought she was teaching me how to serve ladies so I could have a skill, but she said, No, I am teaching you to be a lady, Meg. She said she could spot the difference a mile away. I would be starting school that fall and I would not show up acting like a hick.

The little blue schoolhouse was all the way at the end of Unimproved Road. Mama drove me the mile there until I was old enough to walk alone. It was a nice school for poor folks. People said so. We had enough primers to share and a proper chalkboard up front and somebody even set up a whirligig on the playground.

My first week there, Miss Pettybone organized us in three groups: Slow Learners, Regular Learners, and Exceptional Learners. I told Mama what group I was in and Lord she was proud. There were only girls in the Exceptional Learners, which Mama said sounded about right. She said later in life I would find that most men belong in the Slow Learners group.

At the time, I did not know our family was different from most in the area. It wasn’t just that there were only the two of us with no daddy or brothers and sisters or old people. We also did not go to church. Mama had her a set of rosary beads and a picture of Mother Mary by her bed but she said the rest was horseshit. She did not need some man pointing his finger at her, telling her what to do.

On one of my first days at school, Miss Pettybone gave a lesson on Adam and Eve. She was all riled up to tell us how God created heaven and earth and animals and then he finished up by making man in his own image. She nearbout ended the story with a flourishing scarf.

I raised my hand and said, My mama said she heard we might come from monkeys.

Well the whole class started laughing and making monkey noises. Miss Pettybone put her hand to her chest and said we needed to have a talk.

While the rest went to ride the whirligig for playtime, she called me up to her desk. She said that monkey business was heathen material and had been banned by the state and what kind of church did my family attend and if I saw that kind of material at home I ought to tear it up quick.

I told her me and Mama do not go to church.

She nodded and made a special mark in her red book and asked where my daddy was. So I said, He left. Two words like that, do not discuss it. I had plumb forgot to say that he died in the war.

She marked that down by my name too and told me to tell my mama she needed to come and see her.

I was not looking forward to telling Mama any of this. But Mama saw I was upset and tricked me by rubbing my back until I started talking.

She said REALLY.

She said IS THAT RIGHT.

And then Mama was out the door and in our little car with her cheeks flashing red. To see her marching up to that schoolhouse so furious with a chin that could lead the band, I got worried I would never get called on in class by Miss Pettybone again.

Mama told me to wait outside, but I heard it in bits and pieces.

Don’t you tell me what I can and cannot say in my home.

Even in this godforsaken backwards state, that is my business.

And when she could get a word in edgewise, Miss Pettybone said, cool as clay, Meg tells me you don’t attend church, and your husband left you. Is that right, Mrs. Lefleur?

She did not say it nice, more like that was Mama’s fault. Before Mama could get anything out, Miss Pettybone told her, If I hear that filth in my classroom again, Mrs. Lefleur, I will go straight to the police authorities, and they will make sure somebody raises this girl in a wholesome Christian manner.

My mama was not afraid of anything, not rabid dogs or spiders, tornadoes or shark fishes, polio, getting burgled, or even doctor shots. But when Miss Pettybone mentioned the police authorities, Mama walked out of there without saying another word.

That night, Mama was at her little dressing table, curling her hair for the next day. She always got it ready the night before to save time and slept with a bonnet on her head. I liked to watch the way her fingers moved. The rhythm went spray, spin, pin, spray, spin, pin, in a steady way that could lull you to sleep.

She said, I’m going to teach you something, Meg, and this is important. I’m going to teach you how to tell a lie so I need you to listen close.

She said, Before you can learn to be a good liar, you’ve got to learn how to spot a liar first. It’s all about how a person looks, not what the person says. A man will touch his nose when he tells a lie. If he is right-handed, he will look left. If he’s left-handed, he’ll look right. Are you taking this down in your head?

Yes, ma’am. Spray, spin, pin. Spray, spin, pin.

She said, A woman will look you straight in the eye, but she will touch her hair or her buttons. She’ll blink too much or laugh when it’s not funny or nod when she denies the truth.

Spray, spin, pin. Spray, spin, pin.

The trick to lying is to avoid doing any of those tells. Now you try it. Meg, the other day, did you fool with the cigarettes in my purse?

No, ma’am.

Yes, you did, Meg. I know because of how you look.

But. I just wanted to hold one, not smoke it , I said, but the truth was I wanted to smoke the thing after seeing every person in America smoking. I read the Life magazine, for Christ’s sake.

She said, Yes you did. Now try again and keep your hands still. Say you didn’t fool with my cigarettes.

I did not fool with your cigarettes , I said as level as I could.

She smiled and said, You’re blinking too much.

I did not fool with your cigarettes.

You’re fiddling with your dress. See your hand there on the button?

I did not—I did not fool with your cigarettes.

Better , she said, and while we fanned her hair to dry, she said, Margot, sometimes you’re going to have to lie to get by in life. If anybody asks, I need you to say your daddy died in the war.

Like the rent lady?

She nodded and said, Like the rent lady. Also the Coopers and anybody else who asks. It’ll make your life a whole lot easier. She spray, spin, pinned the last dark lock of hair. And for God’s sake, don’t tell Miss Pettybone what I just taught you.

The next morning, she took those pins out one by one, and wallah , she had perfect curls all over her head.

One particular afternoon, early on, when I was sweeping floors with Ava, Miss Garnett hauled me to the office and she shut the door behind us. The door was not so warped back then but the room was hot and stuffy. And I thought, Lord, keep it open. She set a bag of change down and told me to count. While I slid pennies with my finger, some dingy, some a bright pink, she moved behind me and got to separating my hair. As she combed it through with her fingers, dividing it in three parts, I could feel myself relaxing. Though I told myself, Do not fall into a mess this time, Meg, don’t give her the satisfaction . She had pinched me hard that morning for squirming during the blessing.

To keep myself alert, I thought about what a time I could have with all this money. Head myself to town and buy some hard candies, maybe a periodical off the rack. I knew it was not enough money to buy a whole encyclopedia set but maybe I could afford me a couple choice letters. Like a S or a M —

Behind me, I heard her whisper, Dirty, filthy child.

Well I quit my counting and asked, I am dirty? Even back then my white dress had already turned a mushy color, but I was still fairly clean up under it. I washed myself pretty good at the pump this morning, I told her. Yesterday I got a bath. I personally would not touch someone’s hair if I thought them dirty and filthy.

She said, This is not the kind of filth that washes off, Meg. This filth is inside you.

Inside me. Lord, I thought maybe she meant I had picked up a tapeworm of some kind. Because on the outside, I thought of myself as the cleanest girl here. Still do. Also I did not walk into this place with head lice the size of locusts like those other girls. Those charity women give lye treatments that could burn a damn hole in your head.

Behind me, I could hear Miss Garnett breathing through her sticky lips. It is a gluey noise she makes when she is talking, like chewing a sticky cud.

Dirty, filthy child.

Well I told her flat out, Believe me, Miss Garnett, those other girls are a lot dirtier than me. They hardly even look at the soap good when it comes to bath time. She was not especially rough or gentle with my hair, more like it was a chore. And if something is got dirty inside me, how am I supposed to clean up in there in the first place? I do believe I sliced my hand in the air like she did when she had a point. Kids tend to pick up things.

This filth can’t be cleaned, Meg, it’s in your blood. Because you were born in a state of idolatry.

I believe I was born in Memphis, Tennessee , I told her.

She just kept right on saying it, though. I will be a hundred and still hear her lips unsticking apart.

Then she said, You came from a lascivious, irresponsible, feebleminded woman. But you’re my burden to bear now.

When she said that, well, she could have knocked me over with a feather. You sure you got the right mama in mind, Miss Garnett? Because my mama was smart.

But no matter how many times or which way I asked it, I could not get a straight answer out of the damn lady.