Welcome to Episode 23 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 22, Double Edges. Wednesday Evening, April 10, 1968. Chinese takeout and a game of LIFE settle the apartment for a while, but in the kitchen Gwen and Grant circle hard questions—about Denny, art, and the draft—and an older question she can’t ignore anymore. By the time his shift nears, Gwen hears her own thinking more clearly than she has in years, and a familiar word at the door lands differently this time.
Episode 23: JUST WATER
The phone in the foyer rings, but I doubt Mama can hear it in the kitchen. I raise up on my knees and twist the volume button down on my Saturday cartoons. Then there’s a loud knock on the door. Mrs. Cosgrove yells from the other side, “It’s a man.” When Mama hears, she hurries through the living room.
“If it’s Uncle Dennis, say hi for me,” I tell her.
She disappears into the front hall, leaving the door half open. “Yes,” she says. “This is Gwen Billings.”
For sure, it isn’t Uncle Dennis or anybody in the family. I go by the door to listen and see that nosy Mrs. Cosgrove’s door across the hall is cracked. It clicks shut. She musta seen me.
“Wednesday?” Mama asks the person on the phone. She glances up and cocks her head sideways at me. “Yes . . . she was there.”
Who? I lean against the door frame. Where?
Mama listens a second then, “Yes, she told me. . . . I just—” She pauses. “I—” Whoever it is idn’t letting Mama talk. Eventually, she gets in, “I didn’t see the need.” She holds the phone away from her ear and stares at it. I can hear a man, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. When I step closer to Mama, she puts the receiver back to her ear. “Uhm huh. . . . I see. . . . Well, I most certainly will take care of this.” She’s using her Chamber voice. Must be a member. “Yes. . . . Yes” Then her voice goes high like it does when she’s excited. “I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Wilkins. I appreciate this . . . valuable piece of information.” She says “valuable” like it tastes bad.
Wilkins. I’ve heard that name.
She hangs up the phone and turns to me, biting her lip. I wait for her to say something. She sighs, then mumbles, “Fine timing.”
Is she talking to me? “For what, Mama?” I whisper. I can’t tell if she’s mad or what.
I jump when she stamps her foot, the heel of her shoe clicking loud on the foyer tile. “Podunk town,” she growls. She marches past me into our living room, muttering the whole way. “LBJ signs a new civil rights law . . . ” She throws her hands up and her voice gets louder, “Historic, he calls it. Equal rights like we’ve never seen, he says.” She stops in the middle of the room, nearly yelling now. “Some damn store manager in this damn podunk town . . . ”
“Mama! You used the D word,” I scold her. “Twice.” I can’t make out the rest of what she says as she storms off to her bedroom. I want to follow, but that doesn’t seem like such a good idea. She’s mad, all right. Her closet door creaks open, then slams shut.
When she rushes back into the living room, a sweater is slung over her arm. I just know I musta done something bad because she stops right in front of me with her eyes all squinted and her lips narrow. But then she declares, “Tomorrow’s Easter.”
Well, yeah.
“We don’t have dresses yet,” she adds.
This is about Easter dresses? My cousin always gives me her hand-me-down for Easter to save Mama buying one, so I ask, “What about Connie’s?”
“Don’t worry about that,” she snips. One hand on her hip, she points toward my bedroom with the other. “Get your sweater. We’re going downtown.”
That’s the first word she’s said about shopping. I tug at the hem of my plaid shorts. “Should I change?” Whenever we go to buy clothes, she makes me put on something easy to get in and out of. I look down at my Keds and the knot in the shoestrings. “Should I wear my sandals?”
“You’re fine. Let’s go.” She motions me toward the door, scoops up her purse, and grabs the doorknob. Why’s she in such a hurry? She nudges me into the foyer even before I can get my sweater. Thank goodness the sun is warm as we head to the bus stop. Five minutes later, we’re on the green line to downtown.
When the bus stops at the corner closest to Sears, I stand, but Mama doesn’t. “This is our stop, Mama.” I point out the window.
“Not here.” She raises her chin. “We’re going to Ivey’s today.”
Oooh. “Ivey’s?” Now I remember. I drop into my seat. Wilkins. Sure I’m in trouble, I turn away from Mama. The window is cool when I lean my forehead on it. What did Mr. Wilkins tell her on the phone?
The bus lurches to a stop and we get off. Downtown is different on Saturdays without all the office workers. The streets are quiet except in the two blocks where Kress, Sears, the Woolworths, and Ivey’s are.
Inside the store, Mama leads me straight to the Girl’s Department. I look all around, but no one wearing a name tag is in sight. I sharpen my ears to listen for clompy shoes. Mama takes a blue shirt off the rack, flips the hanger to check out the back, then hangs it up again. We go slow down the next aisle, pushing back hangers here and there to look at dresses. I like the idea of a brand new Easter dress from Ivey’s, but I hate trying on stuff. Is that really why we’re here?
Mama turns up a skirt hem and clucks her tongue like Grandmamma does. “Look at that stitching. Shoddy work. And for these prices.”
As she flips over a few more price tags, she darts her eyes around, here and there, this way and that, like she’s looking for something. Or somebody. Then she seems to have a new idea. “Let’s go see Cheryl!”
We head to the jewelry department, then while Miss Cheryl and Mama chat, I take a look in the glass case at the ruby necklace in the platinum setting Miss Cheryl “sold” me on Wednesday. I keep an eye out, though—and my ears open, too. Every time I hear footsteps, I figure it’s him coming. My palms grow sweaty, so I have to be careful not to leave prints on the glass. Slowly, I work my way around the display cases to the Monet. “Not Mon-ette,” Miss Cheryl told me once. “Moe-Nay. It’s French. The finest costume jewelry you can buy.”
Mama and Miss Cheryl lean close across the other end of the display counter. I’m too far away to hear what Miss Cheryl says as she points toward the Men’s Department. I don’t see ’nything worth pointing at. Mama nods and says something back. I make out Miss Cheryl’s answer: “Yep.” They look off again in the direction Miss Cheryl had pointed. I hear the heel clops before I see the man cross from Men’s to Cosmetics, coming straight toward us. My stomach tightens. But then he stops in Lingerie.
“Come on, Libby.” Mama motions me to her. “Let’s go spend our money someplace else.”
I hurry around the case before she can change her mind. She turns toward the big side entrance leading out to Merrimon Avenue and I follow. She stops before we’re even halfway to the door. “I’m parched,” she announces. Then even louder, “Let’s get a drink.”
Why’s she shouting? We go back toward the elevators. Even though Mr. Wilkins is busy talking to a sales lady, his eyes follow us. By the time we get to the water fountains, I can hear his shiny shoes squeaking behind us. Mama leans to drink. The clacking stops. I stay close by her, staring at my Keds, afraid to look around, afraid of what he’ll say if he comes over. I am not a thief.
Facing the wall, I raise my eyes to two signs hanging over the fountains that I hadn’t noticed on Wednesday. The one above Mama reads WHITES. The other says COLOREDS ONLY. Just a few days ago, the boy, with his mother in the pink shoes, had stood right here where I am. He drank from the fountain with the coloreds sign above it. Did I use the same one? A drop of sweat tickles the dip under my nose.
Mama takes an especially long drink, watching me while she does. Standing straight, she asks, “Aren’t you thirsty?”
“Yessum,” I whisper. I wait for her to move aside.
She points her chin toward the colored fountain. “Drink then.” I squint at the signs and back at her. She raises her eyebrows. “Drink.” She sounds . . . mad? Kinda. Leaning over the white’s fountain again, she turns it on. Before sipping, she eyes the other fountain and nods. “Go ahead,” she urges me and gives me a nod and a wink. “It’s only water.”
She’s right, but I don’t move until she scowls at me. As I twist the handle, I’m certain this is the fountain I used three days ago. Is that what got those two ladies so riled? Water spouts up. I sip. Even though it’s just water, it’s hard to swallow.
Mama sips from her fountain, raises up, and pulls her shoulders back, making herself taller. Miss Cheryl is close enough to see us and Mama winks at her, too. Miss Cheryl tilts her head toward the Shoe Department and opens her eyes real wide. Mr. Wilkins is with a customer over there now, but he is still keeping his eyes on us. Mama glares straight at him and repeats, loud, “It’s all only water, Libby.” Then she grins down at me.
I glance from her to Mr. Wilkins and back again. Is he gonna come over? When Mama nods toward the colored fountain again, my throat gets tight. She means for me to take another drink. Even though I don’t think I can swallow, even water, I lean to sip, remembering the way those ladies jerked me away from this very fountain.
Not acting in a hurry at all, Mama starts to hum, making me relax some. My throat eases up. I swallow another gulp. Then another. When I raise my head from that water, I stand tall, just like her. I take a big breath, then let it go. “Yes, ma’am. It’s jus’ water.”
She gives me a nod and a satisfied smile. I feel the same as when she tells me she’s proud of me. But she doesn’t have to say it this time. Taking my hand, she sticks out her chin and looks straight ahead. I feel Mr. Wilkins watching us still. As we turn toward the side doors, I raise my chin too, and we sashay that way together, right out into the daylight.
Before we get to the corner, a voice calls out from behind us. “Gwen!” Miss Cheryl leans out Ivey’s front door, waving and motioning for us to come back. I’m worried at first, but she has a big grin on her face. When we get close, she glances back into the store then, in a hurry, asks, “Meet me for lunch in half an hour?” She points down the street with her thumb. “Antonio’s Deli.”
Oh, boy! I love their pickles and salami.
I don’t know why Mama whispers when she says back, “I’m supposed to see Nate.”
Miss Cheryl waves her free hand. “You can see him anytime.”
“But we—”
Miss Cheryl raises her arm with the Monet wristwatch. “Twelve thirty. Be there.”
Mama digs into her pocketbook. “Maybe I can catch him.” She brings out a dime and holds it up, pinched between her forefinger and thumb. Then a wide grin spreads across her face. “Or do you think Wilkins would let me use his phone?” The ladies laugh hard, so I do too.
“Gotta get back,” Miss Cheryl says. “See ya there.” She ducks inside and lets the giant door close.
Mama looks down the street in the direction of Antonio’s then puts a hand on my shoulder. “Have to call June too, so she’ll know you’re not coming.”
Yippee! Our not-planned Saturday adventure isn’t going to end just yet.
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