5. From Kent Creek to the Eiffel Tower
Dancing at The Orange Peel - Episode 5
Welcome to Episode 5 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 4, “Awkward Introductions.” Saturday, April 6, 1968. Libby eagerly awaits Mama’s return from a matinee movie with her friend Miss Cheryl. They finally arrive, laughing and chattering about Sean Connery. The mood shifts quickly, though, with the the unexpected arrival of Mama’s new acquaintance, Nate Boniface. Mama makes polite introductions, but Aunt June, who’s been babysitting Libby, is clearly unnerved by his presence. When Mama insists he is welcome, Aunt June departs in a huff of disapproval.
In this episode: With all their guests gone, Libby is curious about her mama’s new friend. Noticing how different Nate is from all the people she knows, she watches him and Mama closely, her mind filled with questions. Only a few does she dare to ask.
Episode 5: FROM KENT CREEK TO THE EIFFEL TOWER
“Honey,” Mama says to me, motioning toward Nate. “This is Nate. I mean, Mr. B—”
“Bonny Face.” I love saying his name.
He and Mama laugh out loud. Mama doesn’t do a whole lot of that, except with Miss Cheryl. She puts a hand round my shoulder and pulls me close. Her Jungle Gardenia perfume tickles my nose. Squeezing me closer, she says to Nate, “And, in case you can’t tell, this”—a second shoulder squeeze—“is my daughter Libby.” She sounds so proud of me that my heart feels like it’s puffing up.
Now that I’m standing right in front of him, I can see that Mr. Bonny Face’s eyes aren’t brown or black like I expected. Daddy had eyes kinda that color; Mama called them hazel. I never knew a Negro could have green eyes.
“Libby.”
Mama saying my name makes me realize I’m staring. I dip into a curtsy, ladylike—just the way Grandmamma showed me. “How do you do?”
One hand behind his back, he bends from his waist to give me a polite bow. “And how do you do?” He has manners. Grandmamma’ll like that. I smile up at him.
“I am so glad you two are finally getting to meet one another.” She’s using her formal Chamber voice again. Must be nervous. “Finally,” she repeats.
Hmm. How long has she known this man? She doesn’t keep secrets from me, but this seems like one. She motions toward the couch and Mr. Bonny Face takes a seat at one end. I cross my ankles and drop to the floor, crisscross applesauce.
“How old are you, Libby?” he asks.
Mama sits by him, then smooths the tops of her pants with her palms. I roll up to knee-walk to the coffee table so I’m directly across from them. Mr. Bonny Face’s argyle socks are beige and brown and black, not red and blue like the cheerleaders’ socks at the junior high school. The light brown in them matches his suede suit.
“I’m nine,” I say. If they’re such great friends, why hasn’t Mama already told him that? “Fourth grade.”
Perched on the front edge of the couch cushion, neither of them look comfortable. They’re close enough that their knees touch. Mama sees me eying their legs and shifts away a little. Figuring he’s probably going to ask about my grades like most adults, I say, “Do you want to see the report I did on cardinals? The teacher gave it back yesterday with an A-plus.” I push up from the floor. “It’s the state bird, you know.”
“I know. And they have a beautiful song,” he says. “I would love to see your report.”
I’d never thought about the sound they make. “They’re pretty when they sit in the dogwood trees after the berries come out. Both are red. The birds and the berries, I mean.” I turn toward the hall. “Be right back.”
“Libby, Nate doesn’t . . . Mr. Boniface doesn’t have time to look at your report.”
Already to the hall, I glance back to see Mama’s smiling even though she was kinda scolding me. Gee, she hasn’t stopped grinning since Miss Cheryl left.
I grab the report off my dresser. When I get back to the living room, Mama cocks her head and asks, “Would you two like some iced tea?”
“Sure!” I answer, then wave him toward the kitchen. “Let’s go sit at the table, Nate.” I hadn’t meant to use his first name. It just sorta rolled out of my mouth like I’d been saying it all my life. My eyes dart to Mama. I swallow hard and before she can correct me, I do it for her. “I mean Mr. Bonny Face.”
They both chuckle, making me smile, too.
“Not Bonny Face,” Mama corrects me as she stands and rounds the coffee table. “Mr. Boniface.”
His eyes stay on her, but he reaches out to me. “Let us go with your mother, then.”
His words sound weird. Is he being proper on purpose, or does he just talk funny? I glance at his outstretched hand. The only Negro I’ve touched before is Mr. Willie. Without thinking, I grab the sleeve of his light brown jacket at the wrist and tug him toward the kitchen, my report in the other hand. Was that rude? I turn back to see if he looks offended and catch him winking at Mama. Relieved, I hurry and nearly stumble over our footstool.
When we get to the kitchen, Nate tries to motion to my cardinal report with the arm I have ahold of. I let go of his sleeve. “Did you draw the picture on the cover yourself?” he asks.
I plop down in a chair and put my report at the place next to mine. “Yessir. Grandmamma has a bird book, so I looked at it to draw this one.”
“Quite well done.” His compliment makes my cheeks red-hot. He reaches to take off his suit coat, but glances at Mama before unbuttoning. “May I?”
She nods once, so he takes it off, but doesn’t know what to do with it. “Let me,” she insists, taking it from him. She goes back to the living room where I know she’ll hang it carefully on the coat stand by the door. All this formal stuff feels sorta . . . like we’re royal.
Nate sits and scoots up to the table, my report right in front of him. He grabs one of my chair legs right under the seat and slides the chair like it’s light as a feather, right up next to him. I want to look in his face, but I’m afraid I’ll stare again. Above the cuff of his crisp white shirt is a sharp crease that goes all the way up to his shoulder. Even Preacher Dodd doesn’t dress this nice on Sunday.
“Libby, don’t crowd him!” Mama says as she reenters the kitchen.
“She’s fine, Gwen. Truly.” Mama’s first name comes out like he’s said it before. He stands to pull out the chair next to mine and motions to her. Mama dips her chin as she sits, and he slides her closer to the table. He’s polite, for sure, being a gentleman at every chance.
After he returns to his seat, he opens my report. His hands look nothing like Granddaddy’s or Mr. Willie’s. His don’t have calluses, but still, they look strong yet soft at the same time. Is that possible? Yesterday at the Chamber, he’d taken Mama’s hand in his. How had it felt to her? Darn it. When he’d offered his to me in the living room earlier, if I’d taken it, I’d know.
Mama tugs at my shirt under the table, a signal for me to quit staring.
“Can we have that tea?” I ask to cover my rudeness.
Remembering, she stands. “Of course.” With a light tap on my shoulder, she adds, “And that’s ‘May we’.”
“May we? Pleeease?”
She answers with a smile and goes to the fridge. With her back to us, she wouldn’t see if I touched Nate. My heart pounds in my chest. If I reach for his hand or . . . for his face. The thought surprises me and I suck in air. I risk a look into his eyes to see if, somehow, he knows what I’m thinking. Geez, he prob’ly thinks I’m a spaz. Thankfully, he’s focused on my report.
Lifting the corners to examine the cover, he asks, “Why are the father cardinals so bright red and the mother cardinals are not?”
Taking the chance to get closer, I pull my legs under me and raise up on my knees. “It’s in there.” I reach to turn to page three. Our hands brush lightly. The little hairs on the back of mine dance. I point. “There.” Glancing at Mama, I see she’s putting the tea back in the refrigerator. I lean back, relieved neither of them seemed to notice I’d touched him. Did it even happen?
Out loud, he reads the paragraph I pointed to and then says, “Excellent! I also would have given you an A.”
It’s the second time he’s made me blush, and I hope he can’t tell. We’re all quiet for a minute, giving me time to consider my question. “How come you don’t talk like other c—” No, not coloreds. “Other Negroes?”
“Libby!” Mama spins ’round so fast I think something’s scared her. She squeezes her lips together and glares at me.
“What, Mama?” What got her so mad so fast?
“You know better than to be disrespectful.”
“No. I didn’t—”
“Yes, Libby, you know better.” She points to the doorway. “Go to your room!”
Nate stands and reaches for her arm. “It’s all right, Gwen.” His hand slides to her wrist and stops there.
Hanging her head, she stares at the floor. He gently leads her to sit. “Truly, it is.” His voice is kind and gentle. He gets two of the tea glasses from the counter, gives one to her, and puts the other in front of me. As he lowers into his chair, he meets me eye-to-eye. “I’m certain I don’t sound like men you’ve grown up around, Libby.” He pauses. “Have you studied about Europe in school yet?”
That’s a strange question. “Yessir.”
“And do you recall learning about the country of France?”
I study his green eyes as an idea sinks in. “No way!” Could he be? “Are you a Frenchman?” I can’t believe me and Mama are making friends with a foreigner! “I didn’t know Negroes could be French.”
Mama jumps out of her chair. “ELIZABETH BILLINGS!”
My stomach knots. Why am I in trouble?
Surprisingly, Nate chuckles. “Gwen.” As he stands, he reaches for her. “This is all fine.” He wraps his fingers around hers and raises their hands to his chest. Eyes closed, Mama slowly shakes her head. “Don’t be upset.” She opens her eyes at his soothing words. “We knew she would have questions.”
Mama shakes her head faster now. “Not like this.” She pulls her hands out of his. “I’m so, so sorry, Nate.”
“Wha’d I do, Mama?” How did I mess up this time? The knot feels like it’s in my throat now.
Before she can answer, Nate says, “Gwen, I am not offended by this, not in the least. I understand how things are here.”
“But I’ve tried to teach her better.” Big tears well in her eyes.
I swallow hard. “Please, please, don’t be mad at me, Mama. I just wanted to know why N—, Mr. Boniface talks different.”
He turns toward me, clasping one of Mama’s hands again. “It’s all right, Libby. You see, I’m half French. I lived in Kent Creek as a young boy, though.”
“Then how in the world did you get to be half French?” I learned in school that Western North Carolina was settled mostly by people from Scotland and Ireland. But wait, there’s the French Broad River that runs under the Asheville bridge.
“My father was from here. As a young man, he went first to New Orleans and then traveled to Paris, where he met my mother. They came back to Kent Creek to marry and live, but when I was seven, my sister and I moved with ma mère back to her home in France.”
Bursting with questions, but afraid she’ll get mad if I ask more—plus trying to be polite—I wait for Mama to speak first. She stares down at their hands. Why won’t she look at me? Finally, I can’t help myself and blurt, “Have you been to the top of the Eiffel Tower?”
“Certainly.”
“Whoooaaaa!” I can’t believe this. I hop off my chair and march up to him. Looking for signs that he’s fooling me, I gaze deep into his green eyes. “For real?”
He nods. Mama’s expression’s a little softer now. Still certain he’s pulling my leg, I urge, “No kiddin’, now.”
“No kidding.”
“Whoa.”
Before I can ask him anything else about Paris, Mama releases their hands and picks up my report. “Libby, honey, go to your room.” She sounds sad, but since she called me ‘honey,’ I know she’s not mad anymore.
I want to make sure, though. Standing between them, I gaze up at her and tug lightly on her belt. “Please don’t be upset with me, Mama. I wasn’t meanin’ to be ugly.”
This time, she sounds tired. “I’m not mad.” No matter, I still feel like I’ve done something wrong. It helps a little when she puts her arm around me. “Just go on to your room so Nate and I can talk a minute before he has to leave. Then we’ll start supper. Okay?”
The clock over the sink reads six o’clock. What time are Brenda and Uncle Grant supposed to be here?
“Will you come back again?” I ask Nate. Remembering what Mama’d said to Aunt June when she was being so rude earlier, I add, “Mama says you’re welcome here.”
“Well, in that case, yes. I would like to return.” When he touches the arm Mama has around me, she lets it drop. He pats my right shoulder, then squeezes it, real gentle. I glance at Mama to make sure she’s okay with that. She copies his squeeze on my left shoulder. It’s nice being between the two of them. I can see why Mama likes him. Maybe she and me both can be friends with him.
“Also.” He points an index finger into the air. “With your mother’s permission . . . ” He brings it near the tip of my nose. “You can address me as Nate.”
What is he saying? An adult man is telling me I can call him by this first name without even a ‘mister’ in front? Together, we turn for Mama’s reaction.
“We’ll see.” That’s all she says, but she’s smiling, so that makes me happy. Nate winks at me, so it must make him feel good, too.
“You like giraffes?” I ask.
“Giraffes?” He raises his eyebrows. Then, as if he’s surprised with himself, he says, “I suppose I do.”
“Good! When you come back, I’ll show you my other report. Giraffes’re my favorite animal of all.”
“Her favorite this week!” Mama giggles, something else she hardly ever does.
“Ah, fickle, are you?” he asks.
“What’s fickle?”
Before he can answer, Mama says, “She’s quite the animal lover.”
“Ah, that’s a good thing. I would love to hear about your favorite, Libby, no matter what it is. But for now, I really must hurry off to work.”
I remember the black door and the neon sign on Valley Street that Mama pointed out on our bus ride home. I try to picture Nate working there, in his suede suit. Since I have no idea what the inside of the place Raymond Peabody used to go to looks like, I can only imagine a giant, dark, scary space. Nate doesn’t seem to fit in it.
Together, Mama and Nate cross the living room, stepping in time like the school band does. They stop at the door. Then Mama reminds me, “Since you never made it to your room like I told you, go wash up for dinner, young lady.” Even though she barks, “Now!” I know it’s not punishment this time. I just wish I knew what I did wrong before.
I linger as Mama hands him his coat. Leaning against the hallway door, I watch and try again to picture Nate inside that building. I just can’t. “You work in that orange dancing place, don’t you?” Not knowing I’m there, they’re both surprised when I ask.
Mama’s mouth goes into an O. Nate swings his jacket around his shoulders, and then slides in one arm at a time. “I do, mademoiselle.”
My cheeks flaring hot for the third time almost make me forget what I asked. Then, like he’d been reading my mind, he explains, “It’s a wonderful place where people enjoy each other’s company and listen to great music.” He tugs at his cuffs under the jacket sleeves, then turns to Mama. “So, I must go tend to my patrons.” He reaches for the doorknob, but stops to tell me, “I was hoping, however”—he eyes Mama sideways—“with your dear mother’s kind permission once again, that I could return.” After that, his voice drops to a whisper, and he leans close to Mama. “May I come again after the club closes?” She cocks her head sideways and dips her chin.
I don’t think I was supposed to hear what he said. ‘Again.’ He said ‘again.’ Has he been here before, after his work? That’s awful late. Nah, he probably just means again tonight, since he’s already here today.
Realizing it’s Saturday, I skip into the living room, landing beside Nate. “Goodie! I can stay up ’til you get here.” Mama puts a hand to her mouth. I add, “I’ll show you my giraffe report then.”
Mama squeezes her eyes shut. When she opens them, she takes in a big breath then sighs it out as she says, “We’ll have to talk about that, young lady.” She points to the hall. “Now, GO! For the last time.”
“But, Mama!”
She flashes her serious-business look. “Nate is in a hurry! Go wash up. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Nate’s smile makes dimples in his cheeks. “It’s nice to meet you, Libby.”
“You too, Nate.” And I mean it. I check Mama’s face to see if she’s gonna scold me for calling him by his first name, but she just raises her eyebrows at me.
I turn down the hall but stop to peek back into the living room. Mama and Nate are facing each other. He reaches for her hand like he’s going to shake it, but instead he tucks it inside the crook of his elbow the way a daddy leads his daughter-bride down the aisle. She grins ear-to-ear. I swear, she’s not smiled so much since Daddy’s been gone. He opens the door and they step into the foyer together, where I can’t see them anymore.
Even with the door left open, all I can hear are whispers. It seems like they’re out there forever. Finally, Mama finally steps back inside, turns around, and puts one hand on the doorknob. She doesn’t close the stupid door, though, so it’s blocking me from seeing Nate. I know he’s still there by the look on her face. It’s like there’s nobody on Earth in this minute except for her and him. I haven’t seen that look, maybe not since Daddy died. Maybe never.
Nate’s hand appears and his fingers touch Mama’s face. I expect her to pull back. Instead, she leans her head into his hand and closes her eyes. I wish so bad I could see him, too. They stand that way for a long time, so peaceful and quiet. The only sound is the tick of Daddy’s sun clock hanging above the stereo.
When Mama finally raises her head and opens her eyes, Nate’s hand drops away. He says something I can’t make out. She nods “yes.” Is he sweet-talking her the way Aunt Katie’s fiancé Barry does her? Is a colored person allowed to sweet-talk a white lady? Mama leans forward, her whole head out of sight now, behind the door. I can’t tell what’s happening, but her upper body sways slightly to one side, then the other. Did they just kiss? My heart races, and I get lightheaded when the boy from the school bus and what he called the Misener girls comes to my mind again.
The sound of Mama closing the door shakes his words away. I rush to the bathroom sink and turn the water on full force. Mama and Grandmamma are always telling me it isn’t polite to eavesdrop. I should learn to mind my elders.
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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…
