The Firefly Dance Read online

  “Hot,” she says.

  “Careful,” I warn her as I ease into my role as her protector.

  “You, too,” she says, almost reflexively.

  I set the pot back on the stove. My mother is humming a familiar melody, something achingly poignant, something almost too painful to listen to one more time. Toby was right. We should really talk about it. We should give “it” a name and talk about what makes us different and whether or not we really are the lucky ones. I know we are the gatekeepers, but I don’t think that’s a matter of luck at all. I place my hand on my mother’s shoulder. She looks up and smiles at me, but she keeps humming, and I smile back because to tell her that the melody breaks my heart would be more than she could bear. And, after all, it is also my job now to keep her safe, to tell her story, to remember the Stocking Store.

  Kathryn Magendie

  Petey

  Chapter 1

  Before Daddy and the other men lost their jobs at the textile mill, Petey Graham’s parents had money for plenty of good groceries, every other year a beach vacation to the outer banks, and Momma went to the beauty parlor once a month. Sometimes Momma’d get Daddy to drive the whole family to Asheville, where Petey and her little brother would turn into an aching steaming whining heap of bore while Momma shopped for a dress, high-heels, and spiced perfume from J.C. Penney, or to Waechter’s to find the perfect material to make her own dress. She’d buy Hill and Petey new clothes, even though they couldn’t care less. Petey liked to wear her dungarees or pedal pushers and either Keds or flip flops. Hill said his fur was fine by him; he was always silly like that. The best part was when shopping was over and they’d stop to eat at S&W Cafeteria before driving back home to Haywood County.

  When Momma worried about Daddy finding another job, Daddy said what he always said, “It’ll all work out. I’ll make it work out.” Even though he said he was afraid more textile mills were on their last legs and he’d have to think what came next.

  Momma answered as she always did, “I know you’ll do what’s right.”

  Meanwhile, he set out to do odd jobs painting houses and fixing porches, a temporary job at the local Esso filling station while Old Man Joe was out with pneumonia, at a diner washing dishes, and on Saturday evenings at a tourist shop pretending to be what the tourists thought was a Hillbilly. Those jobs didn’t pay near what he’d been making, but he said it was better than nothing at all.

  Petey had wondered what her parents would come up with for their Plan for the Future. What they’d come up with was another baby on the way, and that didn’t seem like much of a plan to Petey. She figured she was getting too old to be a good big sister to a new baby. Not like how it was being a big sister to Hill. Eleven and six were just-right ages for sister and brother to play together, and when she needed to, for her to boss him around. Momma said the baby coming was bad timing, but her words didn’t fool Petey, for Momma had a sweet smile play on her lips, rubbing her stomach that held a tiny secret no one could see but Momma knew was there.

  One day while Petey was lying in the hallway where it was cool and dark, pretending she was in a mysterious cave in a mysterious land, Petey overheard Daddy tell Momma some of the men were moving to Texas to work at a plant that was hiring lots of people.

  Momma’s voice squawked, “Texas?”

  “I’m not saying that’s what we’ll have to do,” Daddy said, “but we got a baby on the way, bills to pay. It’s a good opportunity to learn a new trade and the money is decent.”

  “Just wait and see, Quinn. Things will work out here. Something will come up.”

  “Waiting and seeing doesn’t work for a man with a family.”

  Petey jumped up and ran outside. She walked to the creek and sat with her back against a tulip poplar and thought about what she’d do when school was out and she had the whole summer to do whatever she wanted. She and her best-ever friend Angela were going to eat banana splits until they split and ride their bikes and go swimming. She decided to forget all about what Daddy said. She knew he’d never leave North Carolina.

  There were more soup and beans for supper and not as much meat as before. Momma still baked because she had to—baking was a part of her, same as her arm or leg. Before they had to watch their nickels, she’d baked cakes, pies, cookies, yeasty sweet rolls with orange icing or regular icing, sweet and not-sweet cornbread, sourdough and rye and pumpernickel and white breads, cute petit fours, pastries with or without filling or nuts, tarts, and even pizza dough that she flipped into the air and twirled around. The neighbors loved Momma, for she gave away what her family couldn’t eat (and they could eat a lot, Petey knew, a whole lot). Since Daddy’d lost his job, Momma still had to bake to stay happy, but not so much fancy and near to more practical.

  Then it happened. The phone rang right after supper and Daddy rushed to answer it. After he’d talked a little while and then hung up, he called everyone into the living room.

  He said, “I’ve taken a job and we’re moving to Fort Worth, Texas.”

  “No, Quinn,” Momma said, her hand flying to her mouth as though to stop more words from flying out.

  “I’m sorry. I had to. There’s nothing else to be done.”

  “But Daddy,” Petey said, “we can’t move. We just can’t.”

  Hill let out a whimper, stood close to Petey, almost holding her hand but not quite.

  “I don’t like this, either. Don’t make it harder on me than it already is.” He then told Momma to start packing and he’d call the landlord to tell him they had to leave their house.

  Momma shut herself in her bedroom so she could cry without anyone seeing her. She would not cry in front of people, especially her kids. She said a crying momma was scary to kids.

  Daddy knocked on the door, calling to her, “Honey? Come on; it’ll be okay. Beth?” Then he went outside and sat on the porch steps, his head in his hands.

  Twenty-minutes later, Momma slipped out, washed her face in the bathroom, dialed up the phone, and said, “Let me speak to Mabel.” She tapped her long rose-petal pink fingernail on the telephone table, then said, “I don’t think I can stand it. We’re moving away.” She shook her head. “No, to Fort Worth . . . Texas.” She sighed, then, “He has to do what he has to do, but still . . . I’m . . . I’m so upset! Leaving our home!” She nodded her head, said, “Okay. I will. I’ll call you later,” and hung up.

  Momma had then put her hand on top of Petey’s head. Where her hand lay felt warm and happy, even if the rest of Petey felt cold and sad. Then Momma went out to sit with Daddy on the steps. Petey watched as she leaned on Daddy and he put his arm around her. Petey turned away, ran out the back door, jumped on her bike, and pedaled as fast as she could, fast enough to let the wind push all her troubles away and out behind her.

  Their Smoky Mountain valley was cool and misty when Daddy shoved the last box into the back of the station wagon. He gave the car a pat, as if it were a pet dog. Other than his kids and Momma, it was his most prided possession—the only car he’d ever bought brand spanking new. The night before they were to leave, he’d washed and waxed it, and told people who happened to walk by and stop to talk, even if they’d heard some story of it a million-gazillion times before, “Yup, a 1966 Ford Country Squire, only three years old and still looking like it did when I bought it new off the lot. It’s the premium station wagon in the Ford line. Got a magic tailgate; see that?” Then he’d show how the tailgate opened out like a door instead of like his old station wagon with the two-piece thing where he’d have to raise up the window and lock it in.

  Momma, Daddy, Petey, and Hill all climbed into the car, and without saying a word, Daddy backed out of the driveway. From the car window, Petey watched as they pulled out of their neighborhood, drove down Highway 19 past the farmhouse with the black barn and the horses nickering so sweet, as they left Haywood County and crossed over into
Tennessee, and then as the mountains shrank smaller and smaller until they were out of her sight. She wondered if she’d ever see North Carolina again.

  Her guts tied into knots and her bladder clinched tight so that she thought she needed to go. She asked Daddy to stop at a filling station, but when Petey went into the bathroom, all she really wanted to do was hide there.

  There was a scratch at the door, as if a dog wanted her attention, then, “Hurry up, Puh-toon-ya!”

  Petey didn’t feel like a Petunia. But Momma had ideas about how she wanted things to be, like naming her kids after flowers and rocks and hills. Momma liked to name her kids after things from the earth. So far she had a Petunia and a Hill; she next wanted either a Violet or a Rock. Petey inspected the toilet seat to make sure it was clean; it wasn’t too bad and it wasn’t too good.

  “Peteeeeeeey, Daddy said he’s going to leave you here and you’ll have to go home with another family. Daddy said.”

  She began layering toilet paper over the seat.

  “You hear me, stink-breath? I said Daddy’s leaving you.”

  “I heard you! I’ll be there when I’m done, baggy-britches.”

  The sounds of her brother’s feet thundered off on the gravel, and his voice shrieked loud, “Daaaadyyyy, Petey said she’s coming. You better not leave her!” He then laughed big and loud.

  She heard Daddy laugh, the station wagon door slammed, and the engine revved and slowed, revved and slowed, like he always did when he teased about leaving one of them behind. The sounds of the revving stopped, and Petey could picture Daddy sitting with his hands on the steering wheel while he waited. He’d check the time on Grandpa’s old watch on a chain, then put his hands back on the steering wheel.

  Petey eyed the toilet paper, wondering if it was enough to keep germs off her bare behind, but she wasn’t quite ready to go. There was a dirty mirror in the bathroom. Petey made sure she did not even take a peek into it. Momma was always getting onto Petey for messy hair, smudges on her face, her clothes not buttoned right. But Petey couldn’t, wouldn’t, look. Without using the mirror, Petey pulled her hair out of the band, caught it up as smooth as she could, and redid her ponytail. She didn’t need a mirror to do something she could do without looking since she was five years old. She didn’t care about her hair the way Momma cared about hers, any ole way.

  Momma said her own hair was meant to be on a palomino horse’s tail and not on a woman’s head. Petey thought Momma’s hair was gorgeous and alive, and could imagine it trailing out behind her as she ran, like a horse’s mane and tail trailed out so pretty as it galloped. Petey’s hair was more like her daddy’s, soft and shiny but plain ole brown. Petey pulled down her shorts and underpants, sat on the layers of toilet paper, and waited.

  More scritching and scratching. “What are you doing in there?”

  “Beat it, stupid-idiot.”

  “Are you teetle tee tee teeing?”

  “None your beez wax.”

  “Teetle teetle, Petey’s teetle tee tee teeing!”

  “I’m going to jerk a knot in your tail if you don’t get away from that door.”

  “Ha! You won’t catch me. I’m swift and thunderous on my paws.”

  “Get . . . a . . . way!”

  When she was sure he was gone, she tried to pee. All she squeezed out was a trickle. She fixed her shorts and flushed, but not all the toilet paper went into the bowl. Petey kicked at it, and most of it fell into the water. She flushed again and went to the sink. While washing up, she kept her eyes on her hands. She didn’t want to see what was behind her in the mirror, watching her, waiting for its chance to rip her apart. Like in the scary movie a neighbor girl had watched when she stayed with Petey and Hill, while their parents visited Grandma in the hospital for her appendix surgery. The girl had told Petey to go to bed, but Petey had sneaked back to the living room door to watch the TV screen.

  In the movie, there was a man who looked into a mirror and saw something behind him, but when he turned around nothing was there. Later, he checked another mirror and he saw it even closer, and again when he turned around nothing was there. It kept happening in different places with different mirrors, until finally the man couldn’t turn away. A horrid thing came closer and closer and closer and the man kept watching it in the mirror—closer closer closer—the man’s mouth opened like he wanted to scream but couldn’t. Finally, it was right behind him and set to tearing into him, ripping out his guts or maybe pulling off his face—actually Petey wasn’t sure what it did to the man, since she’d closed her eyes tight and had only listened to the horrid screaming as she turned and ran back to her room and jumped under the covers.

  Petey made herself forget about the screams in the movie, and looked around for something to dry her hands, and since there was nothing, she wiped her hands on her shorts. She flopped her shirt up and down, where water from the sink had splashed, and hummed while she read writing on the bathroom walls: Tooties got a stinky butt and eats boogers; sandra likes girls and that means she’s gonna go to H E Dubble L!; Mark + Jenny; I am not going to H E Double L, you are, you big fat liar who can’t spell Double; I wanna to marry Ricky Malone and to have his babies; this bathroom stinks like chicken farts; Ricky Malone is MINE, not yours! He said so; if you rite on the bathroom wall that means you are a dum tenessee hick; Sally hates Marcy; Well, you just wrote on the wall and can’t spell, so what does that make you?; Marcys gonna kick Sallys butt.

  Scratching scratching, then the rattling of the knob.

  “Hold your horses, Hill.”

  “Momma said she has to get in there, Miss Priss Pot.”

  “All right. I said I’m coming.”

  “You’ve been in there for-ever. Like an hour.”

  “Have not.”

  “Well, you’ve been in there a long time and Momma says get out and I’m thirsty.”

  Petey opened the door and Hill pointed at her. “You got your britches and shirt wet. Ha ha! You are a stupid head with stupid wet on your stupid se-e-elf.” He barked at her, gave a howl, and then ran to where the drinks and snacks were, jumping around like a jackrabbit with its little cotton tail on fire. Petey dug into her pocket for the money Daddy gave her.

  “I’m as thirsty as a frog gone lost in the desert,” Hill said.

  Petey slid the change into the slots, wondering how long the snacks had been inside the machine, and if dust and bugs were on them. Maybe they’d be all right. Maybe they wouldn’t be. Petey figured things could go either way; figured that was how the ole world would turn from then on.

  Chapter 2

  When Hill and Petey hopped back into the car with grape drinks, Nabs, and bags of chips—Petey liked Fritos and Hill liked BBQ potato chips—Daddy and Momma hushed up talking. She knew then they had been saying serious stuff. They never talked about serious stuff while Hill and Petey were in earshot. Back at home, she’d always sneaked to listen outside their bedroom to hear what was going on.

  She’d heard them talk about leaving the mountains and even though boxes were filled with their things, and the big truck came with two men filling it with their things, and Daddy shook the landlord’s hand and handed him the house keys, she’d wanted to believe he’d change his mind. She’d believed up until they’d climbed into the station wagon and sped off. She didn’t understand about men and their work and doing things for their family. Wasn’t staying where they were happy just as important as some ole job?

  While she’d stood outside their door a few nights before they left, Daddy’d said, “It’s a terrible thing for a man to lose his livelihood and have to make hard choices that involve his family.”

  “I’m tore up about it, too,” Momma said.

  “A man’s got to be able to support his family. Or he isn’t a man.”

  “You’ll miss your mountains,” Momma said. “And what about my
momma? What will she do with me so far away? She’ll miss her grandkids bad.”

  “I can’t talk about this anymore. I just can’t.”

  “All right, Quinn. I know you’re doing your best. I trust you.”

  It was quiet for a bit, then Daddy’d said, “Beth! What are you doing?”

  “The kids are outside . . .” Then Momma laughed, a funny-sounding laugh. It made Petey want to laugh, but then when she heard the bed squeak and Momma say, “Oh Quinn,” Petey hightailed it out the front door, gagging and saying, “Eeeewww.” She told her bike, which she used to pretend was her trusty steed until she grew out of it (mostly), “Romance is boring and gross.” Her bike-steed always agreed with anything she said or thought. Petey would never be married unless maybe, just maybe when she was about thirty. Thirty was really old, so by then she’d have lived her life how she wanted to without anyone telling her what to do. And she’d not have babies slung around on her hip, all that crying and slobber all the live-long day and night. And she’d never have to move where she didn’t want to.

  “Petey? What’re you thinking about?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You can’t think nothing, ’cause your brain is always thinking something.”

  “My brain is thinking you’re a pain in my hind end.”

  Hill crunched chips with his mouth open, then said, where Petey could see all the mashed mess, “Nuh uh. You are, not me.” He opened his mouth wider and stuck out his tongue to show her even more of the soggy half-eaten chips.

  “Stop it; that’s gross.”

  Hill laughed, took a swig of his drink. He drank with his mouth all the way around the bottle top, instead of pursing his lips and slurping it out like everyone else did. When he tipped back the bottle after drinking, bits of food floated inside.