The cicada tree, p.3
THE CICADA TREE, page 3
Miss Wessie spoke of it often, a saying so frequent it needed to be cross stitched and hung in a frame. “Because the sweet Lord above has to be a woman to put up with all the mess men folk done made down here on this here earth.”
Mama smiled, a rare and beautiful thing. “She’s a smart woman, that Miss Wessie.”
I stared up into the wood slat ceiling, eyeing the tea-colored water stain shaped like Florida. “Wonder why the Lord doesn’t do something about it?”
“About what?”
“Men and the mess they done made.”
Mama tried to smile again but gave up. “Women. If we don’t have anything else in this world, we have patience.” She twirled strands of my hair around her finger. “And hope.” She held her hand to my cheek, the place Cordelia Mayfield slapped, Mama’s eyes anything but hopeful. I wanted to push her hand away, the rough edges of her fingers and the smell of cleaning solvents—all of it upsetting my recollection of the day.
“Mistletoe must be the biggest house in the whole world.” I wanted to switch the conversation to a matter of most pressing interest to me, the Mayfields.
Mama touched the tips of her fingers to her forehead. “I can’t speak of the world. But it’s the biggest one around these parts.” She hesitated, her eyes drifting up to the water stain and back again. “Sweet baby.” She cleared her throat. “Before I walked into that room today with you and Mrs. Mayfield, did she say anything? Anything to upset you.”
“No, ma’am.” Right then I might have told Mama that Cordelia Mayfield slapped me. That it felt good and bad all at once, like telling lies or stealing nickels. That she shared a secret, told me a riddle. I liked the thought of it, a secret with Cordelia Mayfield, a lovely something of my very own. The soles of my feet grew warmer, my toes wriggling beneath the sheet, hankering for cooler places.
Mama tickled at my earlobe. “I hope she didn’t hurt your feelings when she said what she said about not bringing you back again.”
“Don’t feel hurt.” I was hesitant to believe Cordelia Mayfield meant what she said. For the briefest, most glorious of moments, she appeared happy to see me there in the music room. The sky threw another hissy fit, rolling thunder and slinging lightning—upsetting the electricity in my lamp. Mama and I both held our breath, staring up at Florida until the threat of darkness passed. “You ever wish we could live in a place like Mistletoe?”
Mama chewed her bottom lip. “I reckon here is just about a good of a place as any.” She did her best again to smile, but I knew she didn’t mean it. Mama’s eyes shifted up and to the right the way they always did when she was too tired to be good at lying. She bent down and kissed my forehead. “Baby, do you wish we lived in a big, fine place like the Mayfields?”
My feet searched the sheets, finding nothing to soothe the heat creeping up my legs. “Might be nice to have a little more room. Could be nice to have one of those black, shiny pianos, don’t you think?” Daddy’s old upright was a battered thing, the front right leg shimmed up to keep it from tilting. Seemed to me that everything in the place, even Mama and Daddy were delicate things—the whole kit and caboodle propped up with cardboard and held together with rusty nails.
“A new piano might be nice.”
“Mrs. Mayfield sure is pretty. And so is Marlissa.”
“Pretty is a easier chore for some than others.” Loose strands of hair drifted like broken bits of spider web about Mama’s face. She tried to tidy herself, pushing and threading the hair behind her ears.
“You ever wish it could be easy? Being pretty.” Right away, I knew my words came out wrong—a peach cobbler pulled out of the oven too soon—uncooked and running all over the place. I grabbed hold of Mama’s arm. “I didn’t mean you’re not pretty. You are pretty. I just mean . . .”
Mama squeezed my hand. “I know what you meant, baby.” She touched my cheek again, rubbing away a little bit more of Cordelia Mayfield. “Been a long day and we both need to get us some rest.” She patted my chest and eased up off the bed.
“Don’t go. Not just yet, Mama. Tell me the story.” I needed to keep her there with me a bit longer, to know she was okay. To make her believe I thought she was an easy kind of pretty. I grabbed hold of her arm and tugged her back down.
“You’ve heard that story a hundred times before. You can tell it better than me.” Mama’s shoulders drooped, an invisible bushel of weariness strapped onto her back.
“Pretty please.” Mama was right. Miss Wessie, Etta Mae, and I could all tell it, the story of the night Mama danced with a rattlesnake at the River’s Edge Church of Holiness and Light. The night that snake sunk its fangs, leaving Mama with two faded scars on her arm and clairvoyant tendencies.
Mama tried to push herself up from the bed, but I held tight. “Be sweet and turn Mama loose.”
The sky threw another fit, abandoning us to darkness. “You have to stay now,” I said. “She wants you to.”
“Who wants me to?”
“The Lord,” I said, whispering back. “Don’t go and rile her up. She already sounds plenty angry.”
Mama gave up then, pulling back the sheet and tucking herself in next to me. “You’re burning up. You feel alright?”
“My legs are hot is all.” It was not the complete truth. In fact, I was feeling a little strange, not quite myself, and I was a little bit worried. I never had a fever in my feet and legs before. Was I on the cusp of an exotic illness? “Mama, have you ever heard of anyone tasting music?” I wondered if it might be a symptom, an explanation for my newly acquired condition.
“Can’t say I ever have.” There was amusement in Mama’s voice. “Why you ask?”
I lied, not wanting to worry Mama, deciding to try and sort it out on my own. “Virginia Fenton said she tasted it one time.” There was probably no reason to worry. Mama was right, it had been a long day, and it had been a peculiar one. Maybe I was just tired.
“What did I tell you about that Virginia Fenton?”
“Pay her no mind.”
The sky took pictures, setting off a frenzy of camera flashes. In between the strobes, I tried to find Cordelia and Marlissa Mayfield’s beautiful faces, but it was only Florida I spied blinking back down at me. Only, it looked different in the quick repeat of light. Had it always looked a little like the letter “P”?
The ground grumbled, a long roll of a timpani drum, vibrating the stolen nickels across and off the nightstand. The heat spread over my knees and up my thighs. At last, I found Cordelia Mayfield’s stunning face in the storm, her lovely song playing in my ear like a Miss Wessie Remembrance.
Right then, right there, I wanted Mama to go, to leave me there in the storm with that queer thing I needed, to feel again what I felt when Cordelia Mayfield slapped my face. Joy. And prickles. And heat.
***
Etta Mae and I did not see one another on Sundays, so I languished until Monday when I could finally regale her with my visit to Mistletoe. After helping Miss Wessie put away the breakfast dishes, and after she released us to the day, I stole into the pantry on the tips of my toes and tucked two white aprons beneath my arms.
On the back porch and free from Miss Wessie’s glare, we took off skipping hand in hand behind the house to Mama’s garden. Etta Mae led the way, her lovely soprano singing us to the place.
Mama once called the garden her Thinking Spot, a gift from Daddy before I was born. He configured the outdoor space from plantings of azaleas, boxwood, and juniper trees, positioning them all in a large square around the old oak tree. He even repurposed a section of iron fence he salvaged from the junkyard, constructing a fine looking, black garden gate.
Mama said I took my first steps there, she and Daddy coaxing me to them with their arms stretched wide. On rare occasion, Mama spoke fondly of those days in the grass, the time before Daddy took to drinking. I always wondered if it was the Old Crow whiskey that did it—making her abandon that special place.
Once I wrestled up the courage to ask Miss Wessie. “Why doesn’t Mama go to the Thinking Spot anymore?”
“I guess she’s all thunk out,” she said, her eyes remaining steadfast upon her ironing.
“Is it because of Daddy? Did he do something? Was it the whiskey?”
Miss Wessie put the iron to rest, squinting at me as if I stood off in the distance. “I don’t know if there is any one thing that did it.” She straightened her back, placing both hands on her hips. “Most times it takes two to squeeze out all the goodness.”
“What does that mean? I don’t understand.”
“Then you ain’t ready to know.” Miss Wessie picked back up the iron and spit on the thing, releasing a sizzle and puff of steam.
Etta Mae and I, with our novice gardening skills, now tended Mama’s Thinking Spot, keeping it from going completely to seed. Where Mama and Daddy once watched my first steps, Etta Mae and I now played.
Close to the garden, Etta Mae let loose my hand, pushing through the gate. She leapt onto the rickety, wooden bench. Her muddy, bare feet took hold, and when her balance was secure, she concluded her vocal processional with one sensational trill. “You want me to sing my solo from church?”
These questions were never more than pronouncements that a song would follow. There was so much I wanted to tell her about my visit to Mistletoe, and I was hoping just once, she might refrain from singing. I smiled, looping my hair behind my ears and nodded, hoping she would hurry things along.
Etta Mae straightened herself, pulling her shoulders back. With the slight upward tilt of her chin, she set her gaze beyond the garden as if looking into a crowd, awaiting the moment the congregation would settle into quiet, nothing remaining but the shuffle of poster board fans. She rested her hands by her sides. Her lips parted. And she sang.
It was never the lyrics that stirred emotion, but the lovely timbre of her voice that cast spells, her tiny hands moving with the rise and fall of her voice. At Etta Mae’s right foot, a cicada wiggled from its shell, another straightening its crumpled wings just beneath the bench’s seat.
With the last lovely note drifting off to melt in the summer heat, Etta Mae jumped down from the bench. “Did you like it?”
“If a bird can fly on wings, a person can surely take to the air on the glory of your singing.” I swished the saliva around in my mouth wondering if I might taste her song again.
Etta Mae kissed my cheek. “You’re sweet like pie.”
I held gently to her kiss, touching the place with the tips of my fingers. “I know a song. Well, it’s not a song with words.”
“Where’d you learn it?” Etta Mae said, a hungry look in her eyes.
“Just listen.” I pulled and scrunched the hem of my dress humming the melody Mrs. Mayfield played on her fancy, black piano.
Despite my poor vocal ability, Etta Mae deciphered the melody and joined in. After a few moments, Etta Mae broke away from our duet. “That’s pretty. Kind of like a waltz.”
I placed the aprons on the bench away from the clumps of mud Etta Mae’s feet left behind. “I heard it at Mistletoe when Mama was cleaning the other day.” I sat down on the bench ready to talk. Etta Mae joined me, both of us fidgeting until we faced one another, both of us sitting cross legged with little regard for the unladylike flash of white underpants the other displayed.
“Mistletoe.” Etta Mae clapped her hands together. “Where the Mayfields live.” Her voice was filled with a Christmas morning kind of excitement.
“Yes. That’s the place. Mr. Kingston Mayfield is Mama’s boss, you know. He owns the Mayfield Pickle Company.”
“And lots of other things, too. Granny says he owns half of Georgia.”
Of course, I could not help but feel the slightest annoyance at her interruption. After all, it was my turn to talk. Etta Mae had not actually met or visited the Mayfields, which really made me the true authority on the topic. “Umm hmm,” I said, smiling and nodding. I placed my hand on her knee, a reprimand and signal to pay better attention.
Etta Mae’s eyes widened and narrowed with every detail I offered of Mistletoe. It was with careful attention I described Cordelia and Marlissa Mayfield, from their exquisite dresses to the gentle wave of their luminous blond hair. She remained silent except for those times she would exclaim, “My sweet baby Jesus,” her customary expression of awe.
When I finished recounting my visit, Etta Mae was the first to speak. “Were they nice to you?”
Forthrightness bound the edges of our friendship, but in that moment, I let loose a corner, let it fall right out of my hand. “Yes. Very nice.” Why did Etta Mae need to know that Mrs. Mayfield slapped me? Why did anyone? That was a secret between the beautiful Cordelia Mayfield and me. And with inexplicable ease, I told another lie. “Marlissa invited me to the party, but I couldn’t go because I had to help Mama.”
Without any hint of jealousy, Etta Mae smiled, her amber-tinted eyes filled with sincere happiness I made a friend as lovely and impressive as Marlissa Mayfield. I knew that deep down in the ugliest corner of my soul where I tucked away all the bad parts of me, that I would not have extended the same generosity. The sun, filtering through the leaves of the oak tree, illuminated the flecks of green in her eyes. Swimming in those shimmery pools, I began to feel the press of the lies I told. I leaned backwards to steady myself, my hands resting on the aprons.
“What are those for?” Etta Mae caught sight of the surprise.
“Our party dresses.” I grabbed hold of the aprons, spinning around, dangling my feet over the edge of the bench and pushed off. I unfurled the aprons like sails, tightening my grip to keep them from falling into the mud.
Etta Mae squealed, clapping her hands, planting her feet on a damp patch of grass. I held the aprons at arm’s length to study them. One apron was for Sundays and special occasions. Mama took great care to fashion a ruffle from a remnant of fabric left over from curtains she sewed for the preacher’s wife. The other, bearing the discoloration of kitchen chores, was for regular days.
Etta Mae reached out for an apron, and I met her hand with the shabby one. She hesitated for a moment, then took the apron, wrapping it about her teensy waist, concealing the brown, cotton dress I outgrew.
Once my apron was in place, I greeted her with a curtsey. We both began to spin, our makeshift party dresses floating above our knees. Etta Mae stopped and fanned out her apron. I followed her lead.
Etta Mae studied my feet. “Why are you wearing your shoes?”
I took a look at her mud-caked toes. “Because ladies always wear shoes.” In my attempt to capture the elegant cadence of Mrs. Mayfield’s speech, I inserted the slightest pause between each word.
Etta Mae turned loose her apron, her smile diminishing as she looked down at herself. She wiggled her toes and flexed her feet. She began to giggle, the sound catching as winter flu.
When our laughter subsided, she hummed the melody again, slowing the tempo, transforming Cordelia Mayfield’s song into a melancholy waltz.
We took hold of one another, spinning off around the garden, gliding about to her lovely humming. Shards of light rolled across us like a honky-tonk mirrored ball.
She sang, weaving her own words into the melody. “Beautiful, beautiful boy. Oh where, oh where did you go?”
I could taste it again, Etta Mae’s singing. Sweet then sour, like the first suck of a lemon drop.
Faster and faster, we spun, her hands on my shoulders and mine about her waist. We were a single, sinewy knot of girl. A cicada landed on my hand, then another on Etta Mae’s neck. We kept spinning, neither of us afraid.
Etta Mae’s singing grew louder. In the rise of her voice, my legs turned warm, and I felt an urgency to tell her my secrets—that there was a good kind of hurt. To tell her I lied. That I was a nickel thief. That I could taste her sweet-angel music.
Louder and louder, she sang. “Beautiful, beautiful boy.”
That cicada on her neck antagonized me, fluttering against my cheek. My legs burned hot, a meanness boiling my insides. Sweat beaded at my lip, and when I could take it no longer, I put my mouth to Etta Mae’s ear. Anger shot through me, exploding like a canning jar. Right then I whispered the only word I could remember. The only word that was, and I shoved Etta Mae. Hard and mean. To spin and tumble off beyond the oak tree and into the weeds.
Patton . . .
Chapter 4
“Looks like you gonna live to see another day,” Miss Wessie said, dabbing salve at the scratches on Etta Mae’s legs.
“We were dancing in the garden. Our hands slipped loose.” Etta Mae dangled her legs over the side of the counter, smiling. If Etta Mae suffered the slightest discomfort from her topple, she did not show it. Did she like the way it felt? Did it tingle like a Cordelia Mayfield slap?
Perhaps Etta Mae really thought it was an accident. If she was lying to protect me, I was grateful. How could I ever intentionally hurt Etta Mae? And what could have made me do such a thing? Was it the heat from my fast-growing legs? But if I was completely honest, anger pushed me to it—the feeling Etta Mae might have been trying to pry loose my secret.
“Your ole’ brown dress gonna need some mending. And that poor apron.” Miss Wessie rested her hands on her hips. “Looks like that poor apron gonna need to be laid to rest.” The very idea of that mud-splattered apron being put to rest must have amused her. Laughter worked itself up deep from her throat and spilled out into the room. She raised her right hand up to the ceiling. “Lord Jesus.”
Miss Wessie’s laughter tickled like fingers against my feet. Etta Mae and I joined her, interspersing shrill short catches of breath with her soulful bass. Our laughter subsided, smiles still stretched across our faces.
Miss Wessie smoothed and pulled long strands of my hair through her fingers. “Baby, go turn on that radio.”
Such a rare request from Miss Wessie so early in the morning, with chores yet to be done, held the promise of fun. In case she might change her mind, I hurried over to the Sears and Roebuck Silverstone Radio. I turned the dial until there was music and spun around searching for Miss Wessie’s approval. After several adjustments of the dial, she nodded.
