1. Alleys and Shadows

Episode 1 - Dancing at The Orange Peel

Welcome to Episode 1 of DANCING AT THE ORANGE PEEL, a 1960-70s historical novel, serialized in 68* episodes.

In this episode: From the school bus, nine-year-old Libby Billings observes the alleyway beside The Orange Peel nightclub where her father and her uncle, both deputy sheriffs, were shot three years earlier. She struggles with fear and confusion about the murders and the club’s reputation, contrasting with her otherwise ordinary life and close-knit family. After arriving at her mother’s workplace, the Kent Creek Chamber of Commerce, Libby settles in to do homework until Jeff Misener, a prominent businessman and Chamber member arrives with more than his checkbook.

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Episode 1: Alleys and Shadows

Me and Becky quit playing hangman on the notebook paper between us when Al, that crazy boy my cousin Connie has a major crush on, stands up in the back of the school bus, pretending to be James Brown. He acts out like that every single day, right when we get to that same corner.

“Come on down to The Orange Peel!” As Al squeals, he bobs his head, making his blond hair fall down in his eyes.

I scooch over and stuff my books between me and my best friend, crinkling our hangman paper. We don’t care. We twist round and hook our fingers over the back of our seat. The other kids have eyes on Al, too. I don’t know why anyone would want so many people watching them, but you can tell he loves it. He swoops the hair outta his eyes and pats it in place.

Mr. Bob changes gears and the bus jerks. Al grabs the back of a bench with one hand to balance hisself. His other hand is wrapped around a bright yellow Ticonderoga pencil with a chewed pink eraser cap stuck on top. He holds it in his fist like a microphone. “Come on down to the awwwlmighty Orange Peel!” He opens his mouth wide on the “awwwwl” and says the “p” so hard he spits.

“That’s gross,” I whisper to Becky. Chin resting on her fingers, she shrugs and keeps her eyes glued on that boy. You’d think she was the one in love. Double gross.

I glance to the front of the bus. Like every other day, Mr. Bob scowls into the giant mirror above his head and yells, “Sit yerself down, Al Jackson!”

None of us wanting to get ourselves in trouble too, we all turn, face front.

“Grumpy geezer,” Becky mumbles.

When Mr. Bob stomps the brake at the stoplight at Valley Street and Milford, I grab my books to keep them from sliding to the nasty floor then sneak another peek at Al.

“Sit down, son.” Mr. Bob booms again. “Now.”

With a glare at our driver, Al plops down in his seat, swings his legs out into the aisle, and crosses one black Converse high-top over the other. Raising the pencil-mic to his lips again, he stretches his other arm high over his head. Fingers spread, eyes closed, he growls, “Come on now. It’s time!” When his eyes pop open, he’s staring straight at me. He’s a stupid show-off, but I can’t look away. He tosses the pencil to the floor and grabs the bench in front of him to pull hisself up and into the aisle. He just loves trouble.

His head jerks sideways like Elvis. “It’s time to dance, big daddy!” He points out the bus window and our eyes follow his finger to the building on the corner. His voice goes high, “At The Peeeeel!”

Several boys copy him: “The Orange Peeeel!” They laugh at themselves and that makes Becky giggle.

My eyes settle on the huge, corner, brick building. A neon orange sign swings from a brace over the door that’s one step up off the sidewalk. The sign isn’t lit, but I can still read “The Orange Peel Music Club.” An alley down the side separates the building from the other businesses on the block.

This is what Grandmamma calls the “dark” side of town. Everybody knows about The Orange Peel’s rowdy crowds and loud music—something Uncle Nelson calls “Aurenbee.” When Granddaddy calls it Race Music, Mama gets red-faced.

My neck jerks when the bus lurches forward again, but I keep my eyes on the sign and that shiny black door. Raymond Peabody walked outta there three years ago, right before my sixth birthday. He ran down that side alley and one block over, on a street where I’ve never been—never wanna go—and shot my Daddy and Uncle Tony dead. That colored man killed ’em both. Granddaddy said Uncle Tony and Daddy were only doing their duty, protecting the citizens of Kent Creek and Gibbs County. He says even police aren’t safe anymore. I shiver even though the sun is shining and the bus is warm. What do people do in there at night?

Staring at the creases in my hands, I don’t want to imagine the kinda folks like Peabody who go in and outta The Orange Peel. Since Daddy and Uncle Tony were shot, Granddaddy rants more than ever about all the “dumb, crazy---” He uses that word Mama won’t let me say. He’s forever complaining about the coloreds.

According to Mama, though, a person’s skin color has got nothing to do with how touched in the head they may be, not how nice or mean, not how smart or how stupid. And especially, Mama says, not how lazy or hard-working even though Granddaddy calls all of them lazy-good-fer-nothins. Mama says, no matter what it looks like on the news and no matter what Granddaddy says, their color’s no sign of how dangerous they are neither. I can’t figure how she thinks that way, given what happened to Daddy and all. But since Mama says it, I try real hard to believe it too.

It isn’t easy not to be afraid though. Besides the Vietnam War, The Black Panthers is what Walter Cronkite talks about the most, and they carry guns. My Uncle Dennis, Mama’s little brother, told me they’re for self-defense, and that The Black Panthers do good things like make sure kids get free breakfasts before school. I don’t know why their mamas don’t just feed them.

Eight blocks down, our bus rounds the corner between the Gibbs County Sheriff’s Office and the Kent Creek Chamber of Commerce where Mama works. I keep telling Mama, since I’m nine now, I can get off the bus at home. But she thinks I’m not big enough yet to stay by myself after school, even though, if anything was to happen, Aunt June and my grandparents are just three blocks[[ Check distance to be sure.]] away, next door to each other. At least Mama gives me the choice every day of riding the bus downtown to her office or taking the other one with my cousins to Granddaddy and Grandmamma’s house. In the mornings, I just have to tell her which one. Usually, I pick the Chamber. Even though Pammy and Connie are like sisters to me, I get awful tired of their squabbling. The Chamber’s more peaceful.

After I finish my homework in the big meeting room, I can read. Or Mama lets me walk around town as long as I tell her right where I’m going. When I have allowance to spend, I go to the Kress Five-and-Dime. If I’ve saved some, I go to the Woolworths. Sometimes I stick my head into Ivey’s to say hi to Mama’s friend Miss Cheryl at the jewelry counter. I never have the kinda money to shop in that place, but Miss Cheryl pretends with me sometimes.

The brakes squeal as Mr. Bob pulls the bus to the curb at the crosswalk on Berkshire Street and cranks open the doors. I grab my books.

“Bye, Libby,” Becky says.

I step over her into the aisle. “See ya Monday.”

By the time I take the big step down to the sidewalk, she’s sticking her head out the window, yelling, “See ya!” She pauses. “Wouldn’t wanna be ya!”

I stick my tongue out at her. She drops back into her seat and I see her through the grubby glass, laughing. She waves and, my arms full, I nod back. The bus pulls off, puffing gassy-smelling black smoke out the back end.

Waiting for the crosswalk sign to change, I crane my neck toward the parking lot of the police station behind me. Uncle Grant’s squad car is in the special spot they gave him. He told me that parking place is a signal for me to know if he’s in the station or out patrolling. Lately though, they’ve give him crazy nighttime hours, so when the spot’s empty, it could mean he’s home sleeping.

I always want his car to be there. I like knowing he’s watching over us the way he promised Daddy he would. Uncle Grant isn’t really my uncle, but he and Daddy was close, like brothers. They shared a squad car, Daddy always being the driver. So, of course, when Raymond Peabody shot Daddy and Uncle Tony dead, Uncle Grant was there too, answering the call for backup. Some people say Raymond Peabody woulda never been caught if Uncle Grant hadn’t kept running after him.

Even if he isn’t my real uncle, Uncle Grant, me, and Mama are like family, especially on Wednesdays when he comes for supper. Aunt June and Uncle Nelson are always telling Mama he’ll make a good daddy for me someday. I think so too, but Mama gets mad every time Aunt June says it. Anyways, Uncle Grant has other girlfriends. Right now, it’s Brenda. Mama says she hopes this one’ll stick.

The light changes and I cross Berkshire Street. The light-brown brick Chamber building is a perfect square. It’s little too, even smaller than Uncle Nelson’s Dixie Dandy Quik Shop. In this part of town, the buildings are crowded together, except for the Chamber. It sits by itself, in the middle of the block, grass around three sides and a parking lot on the other. A long sidewalk comes out the front, leading to Berkshire, with another branching off to the parking lot. A big square sign on the corner says KENT CREEK CHAMBER OF COMMERCE, with “Gateway to the North Carolina Mountains” painted underneath that. We had “commerce” as a vocabulary word in Miz Hartman’s class so I know what it means, but “chamber” has never made sense to me. Mama can’t explain it either.

Mayer Mountain stands tall over Kent Creek, and the sun hasn’t dropped behind it yet, so the giant Chamber window nearly explodes with glare. Mama is on the other side of that glass, watching me cross the street. As I get close, she steps out on the sidewalk, waves, and adjusts a pin in her French twist. We both like her hair better down and long, the way she wears it on weekends, but she has to look professional at the Chamber, she says.

“Hey there.” She swings the door open for me. “Lots of homework?”

“Some.” I shrug.

“That’s a lot of books just for some.”

“Yeah and they’re heavy.” I shift the stack in my arms.

Mama reaches and nudges two books out of the strap. “I guess it’s time to get you a new book bag, huh?” Yesterday, the handle on my old one broke.

“Neato!” But then I stop myself and try out the word the high school girls on the bus use all the time. “I mean groovy.”

“Groovy, huh?” Mama smiles. Clutching the books to her chest with one hand, she waves me past with the other, toward the Visitor’s Information Counter and into the center of the giant middle room that makes up most of the building.

“Hi, Libby,” Mrs. Wells says as we pass her desk. Hers is in front with Mama’s a little farther back, both facing the front door so they can see visitors come in needing help.

“Hey!” I say back. Mama raises an eyebrow at me. Over and over, she’s told me how working at the Chamber has made her know how important talking right is. I correct myself before she does. “I mean, hello.”

Mrs. Wells grins.

Mama hands me the two books she’s carrying for me and points to the meeting room in the back of the Chamber beside Mr. Bolden’s office. “Go get that homework done.”

“It’s Friday, Mama. Do I have to?”

“Finish it now, you won’t have to worry about it over the weekend.” She pauses. “Go on!”

The huge, dark wood table is my favorite place to do homework and the chairs are cushy for reading. There’s even a TV I can watch when Mama gives permission. But I can’t use the room on days when there’s a meeting. Those times, Mama pulls a chair up to the short filing cabinet beside her desk so I can work there. One time, I asked to sit at the Visitor’s Information Counter but she said it wouldn’t look proper when tourists came in.

I plop my books on the table and fall into a giant chair. A glass window, wide as the wall, looks out into the main room. Mrs. Wells is up from her desk and behind the information counter, handing a map to a tourist. Mama is refilling the brochure rack by the front door. The chain belt around her favorite striped dress swings in time with her hips as she walks back to her desk. As usual, Mr. Bolden, Mama’s boss, is nowhere to be seen, probably in his office next door.

A fat log of Venetian blinds is pulled tight to the top of the window. I’ve seen those blinds down and closed only once, five months ago, before Thanksgiving. Mama said the Chamber Board was in here voting. Something about a new member they weren’t sure they wanted.

I pull My Side of the Mountain out of my book stack. Even though I’m a chapter ahead of our assignments, I brought it home to read before bedtime. I flip the pages, tempted to read it now. Better not. I pull out my math workbook instead. Ugh, three whole pages to do.

When I’m about halfway through the multiplication tables, Mama leans in the doorway. “Hungry?” She swings her arm. A pack of Lance peanuts skids on the table by my workbook. Mama sets down a can of co-cola she’s bought from the vending machine in the hall by the bathrooms.

“Thanks, Mama!”

“When you’re done, come show me.” She motions to the color TV in the corner next to a wooden easel with a giant notepad leaning on it. “Then you can watch.”

According to the clock above the TV, I’ve already missed “To Tell the Truth.” I nod and go back to filling in my 9s. Those and the 12s are the hardest.

When I finish, I take the workbook to Mama. Behind us, Mr. Bolden comes out of his office carrying a folder of papers. “Good afternoon, young lady.”

“Hey, Mr. Bolden.” Mama gives me the look and I correct myself again. “Hello, I mean.”

She smiles this time, making me grin too.

“What you got there?” He peers over Mama’s shoulder. “Math, huh?”

“Yessir.” I nod once.

“Well, you learn it so you can take your mama’s place someday.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t like math.”

“Coming from a sharp whip like your mama, you don’t like math!? I’m surprised.”

“I like to read.”

“Can’t get a paying job just reading. Guess you’ll be a good housewife, though.” He chuckles.

Mama rolls her eyes. She wouldn’t do that if Mr. Bolden could see her face.

“Granddaddy says if you can read, you can do anything,” I inform him.

“He does, does he?”

“Yessir. But I don’t want to be accounts payable.” Mama is always telling me to make good grades so I can get out of Kent Creek and be somebody. I never want to leave here. This is my home, where everybody in my family lives. But me doing good in school means a lot to Mama, so I do. “I might move away,” I lie to Mr. Bolden. With a glance at Mama, I add, “Then I’ll do something big.”

“That’s my girl!” She hands me the workbook. “Good job, sweetie. Go watch your shows now. Shut the door, though.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I walk away and Mr. Bolden plops a folder on Mama’s desk then goes back to his office. I push the meeting room door closed, roll a chair in front of the TV and click it on. Barnabas’s face fills the screen. Quickly, I look out the window to see if Mama can tell I’m watching what I’m not supposed to be. She’s paying me no attention. Mr. Misener, a businessman everybody in town knows and, according to Mama, one of the Chamber’s most important members, is by her desk, handing her what looks like a check.

On the TV, Barnabas talks about a portrait of some lady named Angelique. If I can watch just a few minutes, for once I can talk about “Dark Shadows” on the bus Monday morning with Becky and Diane. If Barnabas doesn’t bite anybody, maybe it won’t give me nightmares this time.

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 2 | The Episode Guide | THE Full MAILBAG

Don’t miss the extras in THE MAILBAG - companion articles for this episode:

• Hangman: A Simple Game with a Questionable Past

• Angelique: RIP Laura Parker

Dancing at The Orange Peel is one story in an evolving collection of THE KENT CREEK CHRONICLES. To follow along with new episodes and extra related tidbits from THE MAILBAG…

*Since the novel is still a work-in-progress, 68 is the current estimated number of total episodes, roughly equivalent to the length of a standard published novel.