17. Wednesday's Lessons
Dancing at The Orange Peel - Episode 17
Welcome to Episode 17 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 16, Shopping with Miss Cheryl. Wednesday, April 10, 1968. Nine-year-old Libby took us into her favorite “grown-up” store where she inadvertently drew the attention of several customers, and judgment from the store manager.
In this episode: After her unsettling experience at Ivey's, Libby finds comfort in Uncle Grant's familiar playacting as they enter the Chamber of Commerce. But the sight of yellow roses on Mama's desk—and Mama's explanation about where they came from—shows Libby a side of her mother she's never seen before.
Episode 17: WEDNESDAY’S LESSONS
I hurry back to the Chamber with the thought weighing on me of those ladies in Ivey’s believing I’m a robber. What will Miss Cheryl tell Mama?
When I get close to the police station, Uncle Grant is in the parking lot. I call to him from the corner. He waves. “Hey, wait up!” After saying something to the officer he’s been talking to, he jogs toward me, holding his handcuffs against his hip so they don’t clink around. “How’s my girl?”
“Good!” As he gets closer, I ask, “Where’ve you been?” Me and Mama hadn’t seen him since ice cream Saturday night.
“Sorry, kiddo. I’ve had extra shifts this week. But I’ve been released from double-duty this evening so you bet I won’t miss our Wednesday supper, and I don’t have to be back at work until eleven.”
“Yay!” I don’t know what double-duty is, but if not having it means he can come over, I’ll be happy about that. “Could we play gin rummy?” I ask but then remember we can’t have teams since Brenda won’t be with him. “Or . . . Chinese checkers?” Mama’s favorite and something three people can play. My favorite’s LIFE, but Mama says it takes too long.
“Sure!” He motions to my book bag. “May I get this for you, m’lady?”
I think of the pretend necklace inside and the shopping ladies believing I put something in there for real. I start to tell him about it . . . but Miss Cheryl says I’m not in trouble . . . so maybe I don’t need to.
“M’lady?” Uncle Grant repeats, holding his hand out for the bag.
“But, of course, my noble knight.” When he slings the bag on his shoulder, it sits way up under his arm, making me laugh. My hands now free, I hold my belly with one and point at him with the other. “It looks like you’re carrying a purse!”
“Oh . . . ” He pats the bag and grins. “But these are the crown jewels of the kingdom, m’lady. We must get them to safety at once!” He grabs my hand and we step to the curb to wait for the light to change.
A shadow in the picture window at the Chamber, Mama watches us walk up the sidewalk. She steps outside, her arms crossed. When we meet her at the door, she doesn’t smile. “Hello . . . , children.” She takes my hand and turns her back to Uncle Grant.
“Mama, we’re not children! And this”—I pull away from her and sweep my arm high in the air. When she turns around, I drop my hand, palm open, to point toward Uncle Grant’s feet. “This is Sir Lancelot, my courageous knight.”
She looks up and down at my champion, who’s grinning at her, ear to ear. Finally, she smiles. “The Camelot thing? Again?”
In a deep knightly voice, he answers, “I’m guilty, Queen Gwen-O-Vere.” Then he says, regular-like, “I started it this time.”
She tilts her head at him and removes the book bag from his shoulder. “Sometimes I wish we’d never seen that movie.”
Bowing, he opens the door to let us pass through the gate and into the castle. I raise my chin, nod—“Thank you”—slow, like a queen would do.
“Did you have fun shopping?” Mama asks.
“Uhm huh.” I hesitate. “Miss Cheryl says she’ll call you.”
“She already has.”
“Oh.” I hold my breath, waiting for what else she’ll say, but nothing comes. “Am I . . . in trouble?” She cocks her head, then shakes it. I let out my breath. Mama’s co-worker looks up at me from her desk as we pass. “Hey, Mrs. Wells,” I greet her.
She nods. “Good afternoon, young lady.”
Right behind me, Uncle Grant says, “Uhm, lovely.”
To see what he’s talking about, I turn and follow his eyes to the corner of Mama’s desk. The bud vase from the end table at home is there. In it, three roses now instead of two. “How’d those get here?” I ask, but Mama doesn’t answer. Some tiny white flowers have been added, tucked between the yellow roses: baby’s breath, Grandmamma calls them. A pretty name for flowers. I lean in and sniff. Their smell isn’t so special, though. “Mama, you didn’t tell me that Na—”
“Get on in there.” She shoves my book bag into my arms and motions me toward the meeting room.
I sling the bag strap over my shoulder and try again. “When did Na—?”
“Homework, young lady.” She plants both hands on my shoulders, spins me toward the room where I study every afternoon, making the bag slide off my shoulder.
I grab for the handle quick to keep it from hitting the floor. “But—”
She stretches her arm and points. “Go.”
Why is she in such an all-fired hurry for me to do spelling words? But I obey and head past the four gray file cabinets lining the wall like knights standing guard. I hear her open a file drawer behind me. Glancing back, I see Uncle Grant sit in the chair beside her desk. His forehead wrinkled tight like he’s confused, he brushes his fingertips across a flower petal. I slow down to try to hear what she might say, but by the time I get to the meeting room, neither has uttered a word.
I sling my bag on the table then push the door not quite closed. Backing up to the wall between the door jamb and the big window where no one in the main office can see me, I put my ear by the door crack and hold my breath to listen. Nothing. Better to see. I ease the door open a bit more, lean and peek out with one eye.
Uncle Grant’s chair faces my way, but his gaze is following Mama. He cocks his head toward the flowers and uses his knight-voice. “Should I be concerned about another suitor, m’lady?” He squinches his eyes like he’s hurting, and then his voice gets serious. “Especially after my behavior Saturday?”
What’s he mean by that?
Mama stands still a minute, arms at her sides. She balls up fists like she does when she’s nervous or upset after arguing with Granddaddy. Then quickly, she pulls out her chair and sits. She flips a hand at the roses like she’s shooing away a fly. “Oh, those are just some of Ma’s.”
What’d she say? I open the door even wider.
She shuffles files around her desk, not looking at Uncle Grant. She says, “I told her they look store-bought they’re so perfect.” Mrs. Wells twists in her chair and looks from Mama to the flowers. I lean back so she won’t see me, wait a second, peek again.
“Yes,” Uncle Grant agrees. “They are.” He pauses. “Dark Willie must be doing a fine job helping Leona with her yard.”
Mama stops fiddling with the papers. “I’ve told you, please don’t call him that.” She rubs her forehead and pushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her shoulders go up, then down in a sigh. “Yes, William is good with Ma’s flowers.”
Grandmamma’s flowers? Mr. Willie? Grandmamma’s rose bushes are lined along the front porch: red, pink, white. No yellow ones there. My throat feels like it’s closing off. Mama’s making stuff up! When I lean out to hear better, Uncle Grant sees me. By swiveling her desk chair, Mama follows his gaze and catches me staring at the vase. She stands abruptly. Her voice comes stern across the room. “Homework, young lady.”
I can’t move. I look her straight in the eyes and wait for her to tell Uncle Grant she was wrong, that Grandmamma doesn’t have yellow roses. These are Nate’s. From Nate. I think of when we saw him on Sunday and remember Mama’s words, to keep things between us. But what’s the secret? What’s the big deal about flowers? She’s got them right out in the open on her desk, for goodness sakes!
She glares at me for the longest time. Finally, firm, but not angry, she orders me, “Get to that table. Now.”
I give her the evil eye, back up then slam the door. My throat is still tight, but my breath is fast. When I go to the big window, I see her still standing by her desk, forehead wrinkled tight. She wags a finger at me. I cross my arms and stay put. She crosses her arms, too, and we keep eyes glued on each other for what feels like ten minutes.
All of a sudden, I don’t want to look at her anymore. Not for another second do I want to see her face, so I shift my eyes to Nate’s flowers. Uncle Grant reaches for her arm, but she shrugs him away. She won’t stop staring at me.
Liar.
I can’t stand her looking my way. I round the table, plop down, and grab homework from my book bag. It’s hard to see the words on my vocabulary list through the tears in my eyes. Finally, I make out the first word: deception. Knowing that me and some of the other girls in class are reading The Secret of the Old Clock, our teacher Mrs Flynn had used the story to help us understand what the word means. She told us how the Topham family pretending to be the rightful heirs to Josiah Crowley's fortune is one form of deception. Intentionally misleading someone.
I squeeze my eyes shut against tears, but one falls anyways. I wipe my cheek, then try to vision the letters in my mind: D - E - C . . . A yellow rose pops in instead. I push the paper away so hard it slides across the table, then floats to the floor. I put my head down on my arms. Mama has never in her life—her entire, whole life—ever, ever lied like this.
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