8. Nosy Neighbors

Dancing at The Orange Peel - Episode 8

Welcome to Episode 8 of DANCING AT THE ORANGE PEEL, a 1960-70s serialized historical novel. Just getting started? Episode 1 | Full Episode Guide | Extra related goodies in THE MAILBAG

Previously: Episode 7, “The Promise.” Saturday, April 6, 1968. Gwen grapples with her emotions as the evening unfolds in a night of revelations. She finds herself in a complex dance with Grant, who is bound by a promise to her late husband that has blurred their boundaries of friendship and love.

In this episode: As Gwen waits up for Nate, Libby insists she stay awake too. The Cosgroves, their neighbors, come calling, full of questions and suspicious of the colored man who visited Libby and Gwen’s apartment earlier in the day.

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 8: NOSY NEIGHBORS

Mama wakes me trying to slip the Nancy Drew I got at the library out of my fingers. The Secret of the Old Clock is splayed open on my belly from when I fell asleep with my pillows bunched up behind my head.

“Is Nate back?” My voice croaks like it does in the morning sometimes.

“Shhh. Go back to sleep.” She pulls the blanket over my arms.

I push it away and sit up. “Is he back?” I point to my dresser. “My giraffe report.”

“We have church tomorrow. Lay back down.”

The wood floor is cool on my bare feet when I slide off the bed next to her. “Is Uncle Grant gone?”

Mama crosses her arms and tucks her chin. “Uh huh.”

No fair. I get fussed at when I use sounds rather than my words. I grab my report off the dresser and pull her by the hand. “Come on. We can make a pillow bed in front of the TV.”

“Church,” she says again, but she comes with me and says I can stay up if I’m quiet on the floor in front of the TV set. She’ll let me watch the beginning of the Best of Johnny Carson with her, but then I have to go back to bed.

She props pillows up on the arm of the couch for herself. While she watches the last of the news show that’s telling about a package found near that motel where Dr. King was shot in Memphis last Thursday, I imagine showing Nate my report. I wonder if he’d say it was an A report, too, like the cardinal one. The news ends and a commercial comes on. I roll on my belly and prop up on my elbows to see Mama over the coffee table. Her eyes are closed. “I’ve never seen a Negro with green eyes like Nate’s. Have you, Mama?”

“Hm?” She grunts. Asleep, I guess.

I roll back on my pillows and don’t bother her anymore. Johnny Carson comes out on stage. I’m sure I can stay awake ’til Nate comes back, but right after Johnny does his golf swing, I’m off to see the sandman.

A rap-rap-rap on the door wakes us. We sit up and rub our eyes. How long has he been knocking? Mama fumbles for the wristwatch she took off earlier. It’s somewhere on the coffee table with my giraffe report.

“Oh, dear,” she mutters, checking the time. She seems confused for a second, then wrinkles up her forehead. “You go on to bed.”

“But I wanna say ‘Hey’ to Nate.”

Biting her lip, she looks toward the door, then motions me up off the floor. “Okay, but make this quick. I don’t want your grandmother fussing at me tomorrow because you sleep through Preacher Dodd’s sermon.”

“Yes’m.” I smooth down my hair and retrieve my report.

Mama turns the knob, and when the chain stops the door, she peeks through the opening. “Oh! Mrs. Cosgrove!”

Shoot, it isn’t Nate.

Mama closes the door, but before taking the chain off, she waves her hand behind her back. Whispering, she motions me to the hallway. “Go on to bed.”

I know she doesn’t want the neighbors to see me up so late, but I promised to show Nate my giraffe report when he came back. My pleading look doesn’t convince her.

She cocks her head toward my room. “Go! NOW!” Even though she still whispers, I know she means business. Her hand rests on the chain. “He’s not coming back, Libby,” she says softly. “It’s very late.”

He said he would. I rub the edges of the report between my fingers. But maybe she’s right. I drop the report on the coffee table and frown at Mama. She still has one hand on the chain, the other on the doorknob. “G’night,” I say. She nods. I stop inside the hall, turn, and peek around the corner.

Mama stands there a second, but then suddenly opens our door. Mrs. Cosgrove steps in from the foyer and pushes the door wide open. The neighbor-lady’s head is covered in giant plastic curlers, the ones she has in her hair every morning as she stands at her sink by the kitchen window that me and Mama walk past on the way down the driveway to the bus stop. She always nods at us, with one loose curler bobbing then rocking back into place.

From the foyer, a man’s voice comes from behind her. Mr. Cosgrove says something about noticing the light on under the door so late and that his wife insisted he check on them. I hold my breath to listen better. “When she saw that n—— walk right outta the front door of this house earlier today,” he says, “she was certain he was up to no good.”

How can a person think something like that about somebody they don’t even know? Mr. Cosgrove used the n-word, too. I lean around the doorjamb just enough to see Mama. I wait and listen to see if she’s mad.

Mrs. Cosgrove takes another step inside. Mama’s chest rises in a big breath and she puts her hands out like she’s shooing chickens. She steps toward Mrs. Cosgrove, making the neighbor-lady back up into the foyer with her husband. Straining to look over Mama’s shoulder into the living room, Mr. Cosgrove says, “When I brought it to her attention that he was empty-handed when he left, she laid off a while. But then she got a notion that if he left with nothing, he musta been here to do you some harm.” He raises up on his toes to look over Mama. “Everything all right in there?”

“We’re fine, Mr. Cosgrove.” Mama is not using her polite voice. “Really.”

“She wouldn’t settle down till we came over to check,” he adds. “No matter what I said to her.”

“We’re just fine.” Putting her hand back on the knob, Mama starts to close the door. Mrs. Cosgrove leans her bobbing curler-head in again. “Are you sure everything’s okay?”

“Yes. Really. Thank you though. Now, goodnight.”

“Well, then! Why was that Neegruh—?” Mrs. Cosgrove’s words are cut off when Mama shuts the door. After sliding the chain on, she keeps her hand there and rests her head on it a minute. Quiet. Still. Then, like she suddenly remembers something, she raises her head, eyes wide. She pulls back her shoulders. Before she can turn and see me, I rush to my room. Thank goodness I’m barefooted so she can’t hear me. By the time she gets to my bedroom door, I’m flipping the covers back and poofing up my pillow. She doesn’t say a word, just stands with her arms crossed while I climb in on all fours.

When she pulls the covers up to my chin, the bed sheets are cool against my arms. I raise up a little for her to give me a forehead kiss, but she goes round my bed to the window. As she checks the lock, she stares out toward the street. Stepping back, she pulls the curtains together, making sure they meet in the middle. “Goodnight, Libby.” I can barely hear, but her voice is sad.

I try to answer cheery. “’Night, Mama. Sleep tight.”

She pats my covered feet as she comes back around my bed. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

The room is nearly pitch black after she closes the door. “Mama,” I call out to her. The outline of her head is all I can make out when she leans in my room.

“What, Libby?” She sounds so tired.

“Will you leave it open? Just a little? Please.” In case Nate comes back, maybe I can hear. “Just a little?”

She nods and leaves it open enough for me to see the knob on the outside and a little of the light shining down the hall from the lamp in the living room. I hear her turn off the TV. I wait for the click of the lamp switch and watch for the light to go out.

It stays on, though, and after a couple of minutes, the wooden lid on the stereo creaks. Daddy used to play Elvis and Ray Charles on that big ole stereo all the time. I miss the music a lot. But Mama hasn’t played a thing on it since he’s been gone. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen her open it since we moved here. Sometimes, she plays the radio while she cooks dinner, but mostly we just have the TV on. She says it keeps company better than the records or the radio because there’s more talking.

Paper crinkles and I know she’s pulling a record out of its cover. I picture her putting the record on the silver pole, then carefully lining up the needle on the edge of the record album. Once the singing starts, I can’t stay awake long.

In my dreams, knocks came again on our door. Again, it’s the Cosgroves, not Nate. And again, Mama sends me off to bed without getting to see him. I’m disappointed the same as before, but the knocks come again in the dream, for a second time. This time, it is Nate, and Mama lets me get up. The three of us talk and laugh for what seems like hours about nothing and everything.

And there’s music. Lots of music that people dance to in the distance. Every now and then, Nate gets up and leaves me and Mama to go to the dancing people. But every time, he comes back. In that dream, he always comes back to us. And he makes a promise. He gives his word to me that someday, he’ll take Mama and me to France

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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