2. Watchful Eyes
Dancing at The Orange Peel – Episode 2
Welcome to Episode 2 of DANCING AT THE ORANGE PEEL, a 1960-70s serialized historical novel. Just getting started? Episode 1 | Full Story Directory | Companion articles in THE MAILBAG
Previously: Episode 1, “Alleys and Shadows.” Friday, April 5, 1968. 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.
In this episode: Misener has come to the Chamber of Commerce with Nate Boniface, the manager of one of his businesses. Libby recognizes Boniface as the new Black member everyone in town is talking about. After Mr. Bolden, the head of the Chamber, refuses Nate’s handshake, Misener and Bolden exchange harsh words. Libby recalls an encounter with Misener’s daughters, and she tries to piece together the interactions between this new member and her mother.
Episode 2: WATCHFUL EYES
When a commercial comes on, I check again to see what Mama’s doing. A colored man, a Negro—Mama says it isn’t polite to call them colored anymore—is standing next to her desk with Mr. Misener. Mama’s chatting with the two men like they’ve known each other a good while.
I’ve never seen a Negro in the Chamber before. He’s all duded up just like Mr. Misener, but instead of navy blue, his suit’s a deep, nearly black purple. His skin is light, not like Grandmamma’s odd-job handyman Dark Willie or Linc on “The Mod Squad.” He sure doesn’t seem dangerous. I glance at the string hanging from the pulled-up Venetian blinds. Could this be the Negro the Chamber Board fussed about in November in this very room? Mama told Uncle Nelson a lot of the members were fuming, her boss especially, that a colored man might be allowed to join. Yep, he must be the one.
Pushing the chair with my feet, I roll closer to the window. A wheel catches one of my Keds laces and pulls it untied. I leave it and spin to face out the window into the big room. Even just seeing one side of Mama, I can tell she’s smiling.
The door to Mr. Bolden’s office creaks open, so I push back to the table. My shoestring catches again, so I lean half under the table to tie it. When I raise up to look out again, Mr. Misener and the man in the black-purple suit are offering their hands to Mr. Bolden. He shakes Mr. Misener’s but ignores the Negro’s. Granddaddy woulda done the same.
Mr. Bolden motions for Mr. Misener to follow him to his office. The Negro and Mama glance sideways at each other. Mama shakes her head, slow, the way Grandmamma does when she’s fed up with Granddaddy but can’t do a thing about it.
As the two men get close, I hug up to the table and reach for my pencil. Mr. Bolden’s office door slams and I jump. My stomach tightens as I watch Mrs. Wells straighten up from her brochure arranging by the door to scowl at Mama and the Negro. Voices through the wall get loud. Then louder. Mr. Bolden is sure mad. I can’t tell what they’re saying. I want to plug my ears but hear at the same time.
Mama touches her forehead like she’s checking for fever. She does that when she’s irritated at Aunt June or Granddaddy. Mama’s boss can be a lot like Granddaddy. Mama’s chest raises up then falls in a sigh.
The Negro sits down in Mama’s side chair and she swivels to face him, leaning close, then pulling back. She tugs the hem of her dress over her knees and crosses her ankles. Then her mouth starts moving. I can’t hear a word, but can tell she’s chattering ninety to nothing. Mama usually doesn’t talk so fast or so much. I reach to crack the door open just enough without drawing attention. The yelling from Mr. Bolden’s office gets even louder, though, blocking out anything I might hear from the big room. As loud as they are, I still can’t make out a word between the two men either.
At Mama’s desk, the Negro is talking now and Mama’s serious face changes to a wide smile. What’s he saying to her? I could go to the bathroom, maybe hear them as I pass. Even though I don’t need to pee, I stand to go, but then the door to Mr. Bolden’s office opens. I drop back into my chair. Mr. Misener and Mama’s boss come out and stop just outside the room. I hug to the table again, pretending to do math. With my head down, all I can see through the door crack is Mr. Bolden’s black leather shoes, some of his dark blue suit, and his fist at the bottom of his sleeve, clenching, opening, clenching. He speaks first. “This doesn’t mean I like it.” What’s he not like?
“What you like doesn’t matter here,” Mr. Misener says. Gosh! That’s not respectful. He goes on and, boy, does he sound mad. “There’s no reason all of this should’ve taken five months. A year, really, if you go back to my first request.”
Request?
Mr. Bolden turns.
For wha—? His door slams again. The wall behind the TV in my room shakes. I look up to see Mr. Misener take a step so I can see his face from the side. His chest goes up. He lets out a huff and then glances my way. I jerk back, pretend to look out the window. Too late.
He pushes the door wide. “Hi, Libby.”
I sit up straight in my chair. “How’d you know my name?”
He steps into the room and motions out the glass toward Mama. “Your mom talks about you a lot.” His smile is nice. “And my girls are at T.R. Jones with you. Sarah and Mary Margaret Misener.”
“Mary Margaret.” I tighten my forehead and get a picture in my mind. Earlier that day, two girls stood close together in a school bus line right next to mine. As their bus pulled up and the doors opened, a boy behind them said loud, but to no one in particular, “Mary Margaret’s daddy is—” I don’t even want to think it, but I can hear the boy’s voice, clear, loud, yelling that their daddy’s somebody who loves colored people.
The boy elbowed the boy next to him and they laughed. The littlest girl started to turn around to them, but the taller one put an arm on her shoulder, steered her up the bus steps and followed. The boys did too. When the one who’d yelled got on the bottom step, he turned to all the kids still waiting to get on behind him and repeated what he’d said before. In church, they tell us to love everybody. It just doesn’t make sense.
Through the window, I watched the girls find seats. The smaller one slid in first, her head down. When she looked out the window, tears were streaming down her face.
“You know her?” Mr. Misener asks me.
“No, sir.” I shift in my chair. “I seen her though.” Boys can be so mean.
“She’s in Mrs. Bartholomew’s second grade class.”
I nod.
“She’s younger, I know, but maybe you two can be friends.” His smile spread wider on his face. “Sarah’s a year older. You’ll probably run into her, too.”
I nod again and fiddle with the corner of my workbook.
Those boys, after their announcement from the bus steps, strutted down the aisle, still pickin’ on the girls when they passed ’em. As their bus pulled off, Sarah scooted closer to Mary Margaret. Having a big sister right there to make things better must be nice.
“Good luck with that homework!” Mr. Misener’s got a friendly face. He heads toward Mama’s desk, speaking to the Negro. Then Mama says something to Mrs. Wells, who pulls a folder out of the members’ drawer where they sometimes have me file things alphabetical for them. Mrs. Wells frowns at the two men and hands Mama the yellow folder. Mama takes a form and a card out of it. From being at the Chamber a lot, I know that somebody is about to become a new member.
Mama hands the form and a pen to the Negro. He signs. Yep, he’s the one!
Then Mr. Misener signs too. Is he vouching for the Negro the way Granddaddy has to vouch for Dark Willie—I mean, Mr. Willie—when they go to the hardware store in Raleigh? Granddaddy says he wants the store manager to know he’s keeping a close eye on Mr. Willie so he won’t steal nothing. Even though Granddaddy claims all Negroes are robbers, Mr. Willie’s not one. I don’t think Granddaddy really believes he is, either. After all, here in Kent Creek, Granddaddy sends him to City Hardware all by hisself.
Mama takes the signed form from Mr. Misener and gives it to Mrs. Wells. Then, with a big smile on her face, she hands the card and the folder to the Negro. He smiles back at her real big too. They seem to like each other. He holds up the card and nods at Mr. Misener.
It’s official. The man in the black-purple suit is a member. Wonder what Granddaddy’ll think of that? I wish he wouldn’t find out. He and Mama’ll surely get into it over this and I hope I’m not around when they do.
Mrs. Wells turns her back and sits at her desk. Best I can from so far away, I study the Negro’s face, wondering what he thinks of the way Mr. Bolden and Mrs. Wells behave toward him. His lips move: “Thank you, Gwen.” He says something else—too much to figure out.
Mama shakes her head ‘no’ then looks at her hands. What did the Negro ask her? Then gentle, he lays his fingers on Mama’s arm the same way Petula Clark touched Harry Belafonte last Tuesday on the NBC Chrysler Special. Mama doesn’t flinch. Grandmamma told Aunt June that somebody at Chrysler raised a stink about the singers touching and it had even been on the news. There’d been talk that Chrysler might not sponsor the show anymore.
At her desk, Mrs. Wells doesn’t see the Negro touch Mama’s arm. But Mr. Bolden’s big window, just like the one in the meeting room, looks out over the office. If he saw, would he be mad at Mama the way Chrysler is mad at Petula Clark? I jump up and peek around the doorway. His door is still closed from when he slammed it on Mr. Misener. His blinds are down too. I let out a big breath and tiptoe back to my chair.
Mama escorts Mr. Misener and the Negro to the front door like she would company at our house. Both men tell Mrs. Wells ‘bye’ as they pass by her. She nods but doesn’t look up. They leave and Mama, fiddling with her chain belt, watches through the glass door ’til they get to their cars. As she comes back to her desk, her smile disappears when Mrs. Wells yanks open a drawer, jams in the membership folder, then slams it shut. Mama stops mid-step, draws in a long breath, then marches toward the conference room.
I spin my chair, pull with my feet fast toward the TV. Quick, I reach to change the channel. But “Dark Shadows” has already ended. Durn it. I’m glad Mama won’t catch me watching something I’m not supposed to, but Monday morning when Becky and Diane talk about the show, I’ll have nothing to say again.
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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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…
