10. Half Mast

Dancing at The Orange Peel - Episode 10

Welcome to Episode 10 of Dancing at The Orange Peel, a 1960-70s serialized historical novel. Just getting started? Episode 1 | Full Episode Guide | Extra fun content in THE MAILBAG

Previously: Episode 9, Carter’s Eyes. Saturday, April 6, 1968. With Libby tucked back in bed, the anticipation of Nate’s arrival stirs in Gwen a mix of excitement, guilt, and worry. She attempts to navigate these conflicting emotions, fully aware of the risks of discovery and inevitable judgment from her family.

In this episode: Sunday, April 7, 1968. As Libby and her mother prepare for church, Libby notices a second yellow rose has appeared in the vase since the night before. Her questions about Nate’s visit get shushed as she and Mama get in the car with family. On their ride to Kent Creek First Baptist, Libby’s cousin Pammy questions the reason for the flags flying half-mast.

Content Note for this episode: Language - The language and attitudes of these fictional characters are intended to be representative of the cultural climate at the time and place of this story. I’ve made every effort to present them in a manner that is historically plausible and yet reduces harm.

Episode 10: HALF MAST

Mama shakes my shoulder. “Libby, Libby honey. You’ve got to wake up.”

The bright light coming through the slit in my bedroom curtains hurts my eyes. I roll over and hug Winnie the Pooh close.

Mama rounds the foot of my bed. “You know how your Uncle Nelson fusses if he has to keep the car running while they wait on us.” She throws the curtains back, filling the bedroom with sunshine. I squeeze my eyes shut, groan.

“Come on.” Palms up, she raises her arms. “UP! Get dressed and come to breakfast.”

When she leaves, I roll from under the covers. Mama has spread out the new petticoat Aunt June bought me on the foot of my bed, along with the baby blue dress my cousin Connie got too big for. Beside them are white ankle socks with blue bows on the sides. Shiny white patent leather Mary Janes wait by my door.

I pull on the stiff petticoat, but peel that thing right back off. It scratches all the way down my legs. Whoever invented these things? A scan of my room reveals only one place Mama won’t think to look for it. I stuff it in my toy box, then quietly shut the lid, slip into the dress, and head for the kitchen.

Toast is on the table, and Mama doesn’t even notice that my dress isn’t standing out. Rushing off, she breathes, “I have to get ready.” Then, from the hallway, “You eat quick. But don’t get ’nything on that dress!”

Before I can finish breakfast, she’s back. I push a glob of Aunt Sivvy’s homemade grape jelly around the plate with the crusty edge of my toast. Mama takes the plate away. “Don’t play with your food.” It clatters in the sink with the other dishes. “Those’ll have to wait until we get back,” she says. “Run get that seersucker jumper to give Pammy.” In our family, clothes always come from Connie to me, and then go back to Connie’s little sister Pammy—Half Pint. Granddaddy calls her that because she’s so small.

I skip to my bedroom to find the jumper. The Clue of the Broken Locket is still on my bed from the night before. I climb up and open the book.

I’ve read four pages when Mama yells from the living room, “They’re here!”

I jam a floweredy bookmark from the library in the place where I stopped and hurry to the closet. With a swoosh, I slide hangers to the right. The jumper isn’t there.

“Libby!” Mama calls again.

“Coming!” I push hanging clothes to the other side, but still don’t see that stupid jumper. The horn of Uncle Nelson’s new station wagon blares outside. Maybe Mama will forget about it.

She rushes in. “What are you doing in here?” Right away, her eye lands on the book. Her face reddens, and she extends her pointer finger. “I asked you to do just one thing this morning.”

“I looked for it, Mama.” I motion toward the closet, some clothes now only halfway on their hangers. “I cain’t find it.”

“Can’t, Libby. Or cannot. Never cain’t!” My heart sinks into my belly the way it does every time Mama fusses at me. The horn blows again. She motions me to follow. “Just come on.”

My new church shoes are slick, so I slide them across the floor. As Mama opens the door, the bud vase on the end table catches my eye. Two roses now, not one. If Nate came, why didn’t Mama wake me? She better not have shown him my giraffe report. I scan the room. It’s mine to show him.

Uncle Nelson lays on his horn this time. Mama waves me through the foyer and out the door. The morning air gives me a shiver, reminding me my sweater is still on my bed. No going back. I stop to scrape my shoe bottoms across the sidewalk concrete. I don’t want to slip on the slick church floors, but I’m really doing it so Mama will stop, too. I want to ask her about the new rose.

Uncle Nelson gives the horn two quick toots. Mama hurries, but I stay put and call to her. “He came back.”

She doesn’t seem to hear. “Do that at church,” she urges. “Come on.” She stops but doesn’t turn around. When I catch up to her, she leans to me and whispers, “Best keep that between us.” She grabs my hand, squeezes. Then, between her teeth, she adds, “You understand me?” The second squeeze is tighter.

She’s not usually like that, so I know she means business. “Yes, ma’am.”

As we get to the curb, The Blue Ridge Quartet sing loud from Uncle Nelson’s new eight-track tape player. Probably Granddaddy’s choice since it’s Sunday. Uncle Nelson is standing by the back door that lays down like the tailgate on Granddaddy’s pickup. Blowing out a puff of cigarette smoke, he raises the hand that’s holding his Winston. “Dammit to hell, why can’t none of you Dewitt women ever be on time?”

My head feels swimmy and my throat tightens like always when grownups get upset. His smoke doesn’t help. Through the side window, I see Grandmamma in the back seat twisting her big body to see him. Even though I couldn’t hear her, I know she’s throwing him a “tsk, tsk” for using bad words.

I reckon he’s forgotten Mama marrying Daddy made us Billings. I imagine saying to him: “We’re Billings women, me and Mama,” then sticking my tongue out at him. I don’t want to risk it, though. I’m not sure if he’s fuming for real or just playing mad. He enjoys riling the women in the family, especially Mama and Aunt June.

My aunt pokes her head out the open front window. “Nelson, don’t you curse in front of these kids!” She wags a finger. “Especially on Sunday.”

Granddaddy rolls down his window too and stretches out his thin neck. “Don’t you go bad-mouthing my gals neither.” He’s protective of all us girls. The whole family, really. He always says, “Family above all else—except God, especially on Sunday.”

Uncle Nelson ignores him but sasses Aunt June. “Woman, don’t you tell me how to talk.” His face gets red. Me and Mama stand there waiting for things to simmer down. Pammy and Connie stay quiet in the back of the station wagon.

Finally, Mama opens the back door on Aunt June’s side and mumbles, “Sorry, Nelson,” as she rolls her eyes at him. She waves me toward the back of the car. “Get in there with your cousins.”

As I walk by Uncle Nelson, he smiles. “Like my new car horn?” he whispers.

I grin back and whisper too, “It’s a little loud.”

He chuckles. Pammy and Connie say “Hey,” and Pammy moves Grandmamma’s walker to make room between them. I climb onto the cold metal door, quickly plop on the carpet, and dig in the heels of my Mary Janes. I’m careful to keep my dress down as I push myself back. Legs stretched out, my cousins and me face backwards, leaning on the seat where Mama has slid in with Grandmamma and Granddaddy. Uncle Nelson slams the door shut.

We head toward the church like every Sunday, except Pammy and Connie are quieter than usual. They’ve probably already been in trouble for fussing at least once this morning. When we pass the Methodist church, Grandmamma hums. “Mmm, mmm. Look at the lovely tulips.” Bright yellow flower heads appear and disappear behind the legs of the Methodists hurrying up the front walk. Grandmamma always complains that our church, Kent Creek First Baptist, has nothing but concrete and asphalt around it. The congregation has gotten so big they paved over the front grass for more parking. Whenever Grandmamma grumbles about missing their little country church near the farm, Granddaddy tells her to hush, that he likes being able to get lost in a crowd so’s he won’t have to talk to the preacher.

When we pass the courthouse a block from our church, Pammy locks eyes on the flagpole. “Daddy,” she calls out. “Why’re those flags only halfway up that pole?”

There’s a minute of quiet, waiting on his answer. Finally, he says, “Martin Luther King, honey. He was shot Thursday.”

Granddaddy grunts.

Pammy’s eyes widen. “Shot dead?”

“Don’t you know nothin’?” I say. “Everybody knows he died.”

She scowls at me. “Wull, I can’t help it. How’m I supposed to know?” She pauses. “Who’s Martin Luther King?”

“Hoe-Lee Cow!” What a dingbat she is. “Don’t you watch the news or nothing?”

“Libby! Better English,” Mama scolds.

“I hate the news,” Pammy says.

I tell her, “You should pay attention, know what’s going on in the world.” It’s important to.

“So, who is he?”

Granddaddy answers this time. “He’s that n——r preacherman who’s been goin’ around getting all the jigaboos excited.”

Mama shifts behind me. She huffs. Quick, I pray that Granddaddy doesn’t start one of his rants that will get her upset before church.

“Yeah,” Grandmamma says. “And I don’t know why in the world they had to postpone Opening Day. At least the Dodgers and the Phillies might play Tuesday night.” Grandmamma loves her baseball more than anything.

I feel Mama squirm again and know she’s not happy with her parents. But she doesn’t say a thing. Probably trying to keep the peace. After all, it is Sunday.

Thanks for reading! Each episode is a work-in-progress, which means you’re a vital part of my creation process, and the story may expand or contract as I write. I encourage and value your comments.

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DANCING AT THE ORANGE PEEL is one story in evolving collection called “The Kent Creek Chronicles.” To follow along and receive extra related tidbits from THE MAILBAG…