Welcome to Episode 16 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 15, Kitchen Questions. Sunday, April 7, 1968. In her mother's familiar kitchen, Gwen finds herself caught between her sister June's relentless matchmaking, her brother Denny's gentle prodding about her happiness, and her own careful guard over her growing feelings for Nate Boniface. June attempts to win Denny on her side and aims a stinging accusation at Gwen. As Denny persists with his sincere inquiries, Gwen has questions for him as well.
In this episode, nine-year-old Libby takes us into her favorite “grown-up” store where she inadvertently draws the attention of several customers.
Episode 16: Shopping With Miss Cheryl
The last day of school before Easter break, the only homework Mrs. Flynn gives is spelling words. So that morning, I ask Mama’s permission to get off the bus after school at Ivey’s. She agrees—so long as I check in with her friend, Miss Cheryl, the second I get there and then come straight to the Chamber right after.
I love going to Ivey’s Department Store when Miss Cheryl’s working. If she’s not too busy with customers, she lets me climb on one of her stools and try on clip earrings, turning the mirror to see myself. Other times, I watch her arrange glittery Napier necklaces around dark blue velvet necks with no heads, then put them on display inside the lighted case. Today, I’ll get her to show me the prettiest ruby necklaces behind the glass. I wish ruby was my birthstone, like Mama’s, instead of emerald.
All I can do today is window-shop. That’s what Aunt June calls not buying anything but pretending like you’re going to. I haven’t saved enough yet for the transistor radio I’ve already picked out. I want it so I can listen to our neighbor Mr. Madden play the songs Daddy used to like. His radio name is Madman Madden.
In addition to being the last school day before Easter, today is baseball season opening day. I know that because on Sunday, Grandmamma—the biggest baseball fan ever was—bellyached about the weatherman’s prediction of a hotter-than-usual day. He was right. The short walk from the bus stop to Ivey’s gets me dripping-sweaty.
The store’s not crowded like on Saturdays. Swinging my new book bag, I turn from the wide middle aisle to weave my way between the shelves and racks toward jewelry. I wave at Miss Cheryl so she knows I’m there and continue on my way to Toys. First, I stop in Children’s Apparel, where Mama would buy clothes for me if we were rich. An official-looking man wearing a shiny metal name tag I can’t read walks by. The heels of his brown dress shoes click on the marble floors. I pretend to be interested in a matching skirt and top, purple and Kelly green plaid. He pays me no mind.
After he disappears into Gift Wrap & Layaway, I drop my book bag on the floor and take the outfit off the rack. I hold the double hanger to my shoulders and smooth the front of the purple and green shirt. Pretty. The man comes back out of Gift Wrap and I freeze, hoping he won’t have a cow about a kid touching his merchandise with no grownup around. I hold my breath ’til he disappears behind a tall display of pocketbooks.
I return to my fashions, using a hoity-toity accent. “Do you like this one, dear?”
“Nice for tea at the country club,” I answer myself. I pinch the skirt, pull out the pleats, and curtsy. Sarah Misener would look cute in it, but busy plaid is not for me. I hang the outfit in the exact spot I found it, pick up my book bag, and head up the escalator.
Miss Cheryl told me once’t that Ivey’s is popular for their clothes and jewelry, so Toys isn’t a big department. I’m too grown up for the toys they have anyway. I pretend I’m looking for Pammy’s birthday present. Two large ladies I may have seen at church before hover over barrels of Lincoln Logs. I check out a Hot Wheels race track and a set of Matchbox cars that I’d get for Pammy if she was a boy. Then I go down the shelf of board games. I’ll put “That Girl” on my Christmas list.
The escalator creaks as I step on to go back downstairs. Below me, rows of display tables and lines of clothes racks and shelves make a cool pattern across the first floor. The same boss man with the name tag I’d seen before is standing on the customer side of Miss Cheryl’s jewelry counter. When I get to the bottom of the escalator, I dilly-dally by the handbags, waiting for him to go away. He and Miss Cheryl glance up at me. Miss Cheryl smiles then turns back to the man. I can barely make out her telling him, “I’ll get with Betsy about switching days. Thanks, Mr. Wilkins.” The man nods and walks away. Miss Cheryl calls to me, “Hi, Libby! What are you up to?”
“Shoppin’. Didn’t have much homework so Mama said I could.”
“She called to tell me you’d be coming.” She adjusts some bracelets on a hanging rack. “Well, ma’am. Did you come to look at those necklaces you were admiring last time?”
I skip to the counter. “I was thinking a string of pearls or a ruby necklace would be groovy.”
“Well, then.” She moves down the counter away from me. “You may want to step over here then.” She taps the glass case with her pastel-pink nails. “I’ve got this lovely ruby in a fine platinum setting.”
“My favorite! I’ll take it!”
“But, ma’am.” She pretends to be shocked. “Don’t you want to know how much?”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter. I like it. I’ll take it.”
“Fine!” She grins ear to ear. “I’ll ring you up so you can be on your way then.” She pretends to punch the keys on her cash register. Miss Cheryl is fun like that. “Here you go, ma’am.” She hands me an imaginary shopping bag.
Switching to my hoity-toity voice, I thank her, calling her dear. It makes her laugh. I prop my book bag on my hip, punch the metal clasp, and when the bag gaps open, I stuff in my pretend package, then click the flap closed again. When I look up, the two ladies from Toys are watching me as they walk by. One leans to say something to the other, who’s clutching a huge package. She musta bought those Lincoln Logs.
When I smile at them, they turn away. Rude.
“Where are you off to now?” Miss Cheryl asks me.
“Downstairs to make sure my radio’s still there. I’ve got two seventy-five saved, but it’s not enough yet.”
“Keep saving.” In a whisper, she adds, “Tell your mama there’s a new movie we need to see. Have her call me tonight.”
“Okay.” I start back toward the escalator. “Bye.” When I turn to wave, two water fountains by the elevators catch my eye. I’m still hot from my walk, so a drink sounds good and I head for them.
The two ladies are by the elevator and one punches the DOWN button. They back away a few steps when a young Negro woman in low pink heels with a matching purse on her arm lifts a boy—about four years old, I’m guessing—to one of the fountains. The boy drinks and his mother sets him down. He stares at me as he grips his mother’s finger. When they walk away, he glances back and smiles at me. I probably watch him a little too long, but he makes me think of Nate and wonder what he looked like when he was little.
I step to the fountain and turn the handle. The water is cool on my tongue. All of a sudden, somebody grabs my arm and jerks me away from the fountain. “Ouch!” My book bag whacks the side of it.
“No!” one lady squeals. “You surely know better!” She tugs at my arm. I don’t want to be rude, but she’s hurting me. I try to squirm out of her grip with no luck.
The one with the package mutters, “Oh, no. My, my, my! Oh, no.”
What’s all this fuss about?
Clomping heels rush toward us. The woman squeezing my arm asks the man, “Did you see that, Mr. Wilkins? You best take care of this!” She hands me off to him. “And where is her mother?”
I’ve window-shopped here without Mama before and nobody’s ever gotten mad about it. Why are they so upset? Then I remember how they watched me and Miss Cheryl when I put my make-believe necklace into my bag. They musta thought I was stealing something for real! Feeling the tears in my eyes, I wail, “I didn’t do nothing!”
“I’ll handle this.” The manager leads me around the corner by one arm. His heels hit the marble floor hard, making every single person in that store turn to stare at us. He drags me toward Ladies Accessories, then steers me behind the glass display case with Miss Cheryl. “Stay here,” he orders, sitting me down on a stool. I clutch my book bag in my lap, ready to open it to prove I haven’t stole a thing.
He motions Miss Cheryl to the other end of the counter. Their voices are so low I can’t make out what he tells her. Miss Cheryl nods. Then I hear her say, “Yes, Mr. Wilkins, I’ll be sure and talk to her mother.” The manager scowls at me like Granddaddy scowls at us kids when we’ve done something bad. His steps echo as he marches away.
Miss Cheryl rolls her eyes and pats my shoulder. “Libby, honey. Why don’t you head back to your mama’s office now?”
Confused but relieved she’s letting me go, I hop off the stool and sling the bag over my shoulder. “Am I in trouble?”
“You needn’t worry. Tell your mama I’ll call her. Just run along.”
I don’t need Miss Cheryl to hurry me outta there. Those ole ladies at the fountain were sore, and I don’t want them or anybody else claiming I’m a thief. I haven’t done a single wrong thing. If they won’t believe me, Uncle Grant will vouch for me. They’ll take the word of a policeman, for sure.
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.
Jump to: Episode Guide | THE MAILBAG
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…
Subscribing is free, but a paid subscription helps me continue writing my stories and living my dream as a author.
Whichever you choose, thanks for your support!
Your grateful scribe,
This hit home as I just read an article on the Selma marches during MLK, Jr's life.