Spelldown (18 page)

A huge burp rises up out of my stomach, then another and another. Tastes like vinegar and ashes.

“Excuse me,” I say, embarrassed for the first time. Billy Ray’s heard me burp a hundred times, but now that we’ve kissed, it seems disgusting.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Will you get Dr. Bauknight for me? I need to talk to him—alone.”

“Sure,” Billy Ray says, and rushes from the room.

A couple minutes later Dr. Bauknight walks into the room. “You wanted to see me?”

“I thought of a few other things that might be causing the trouble.”

“You mind telling me what they are?”

“This morning I had a headache and I took three BC powders.”

“Why so many?”

“That’s how many Daddy takes.”

“That’s way too much, but I still don’t think that would cause these symptoms.”

“Well—uh, I also smoked a couple pipefuls of cherry tobacco.”

He squints his eyes, but says calmly, “Do you normally smoke a pipe?”

“It was my first time. The tobacco smelled so good, I thought I’d smoke a little bit to see if it would relax me.”

“Anything else you forgot to tell me?”

“Besides the pimento-cheese sandwich, I had two whopper-size dill pickles for lunch.”

“You had anything else to drink besides the soda?”

“I drank some coffee this morning.”

“How much?”

“Two or three cups—I’m not sure.”

Dr. Bauknight looks at me like I’m an ignoramus, then paces back and forth beside my bed. Finally, he stops and says, “Given this new information, there’s a good chance you’re having acute gastritis, but I still haven’t ruled out appendicitis. Just try to get some rest. I’ll check back with you in a little while.” He turns to walk away.

“Dr. Bauknight, I need to ask you something, please.”

“Okay, fire away.”

“Do you have to tell my mother about the tobacco situation? It was a real stupid mistake. I promise I won’t smoke again,” I say, holding my hands in prayer position.

He looks at me for what seems like a long time. Finally, his frown melts. “Tell you what. If you promise not to wear that cowgirl outfit when you get to Washington, I’ll promise not to mention the tobacco situation to your mother.”

“You got yourself a deal,” I say, and shake his giant slab of a hand.

1: to habituate to a non-native climate

Early Monday afternoon, as our plane starts its descent, I look out the cute airplane window and see the Potomac River and the Pentagon, which sure enough is a pentagon. Mama sits beside me with her eyes closed, her lips moving in silent prayer. Suddenly, there’s a horrible sound, as if gravity were sucking a hole in the bottom of the plane. “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,” Mama prays.

Mrs. Harrison leans over from across the aisle. “It’s okay, Mrs. Bridges, they’re just lowering the landing gear.”

“Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done …” Mama keeps on praying.

I shut my eyes, trying not to imagine this jet plane soaring straight into the ground like a goddamn missile. Everything is shaking and shivering for what seems like an eternity, and then
whumphf—whumphf
. I hope to God that’s the landing wheels hitting the runway! We’re slowing down so fast, the back of my head feels glued to the seat. If I was the puking kind, I’d be upchucking all over the place.

“Thank you, wounded Jesus,” Mama says when we finally stop.

Mrs. Harrison pats Mama on the knee. “You okay, Mrs. Bridges?”

“Fine. Just fine. Do you mind calling me Lila?”

“Not at all, if you call me Amanda.” My teacher winks at me.

“Okay, Amanda,” Mama says in this new, certain kind of voice she’s been using since Saturday night, when Preacher Smoot’s prayer circle turned my appendicitis into gastritis.

The baggage claim area is jam-packed with people picking up all kinds of luggage and carting it away. I thought the Charlotte airport was something, but this one is like a big city. Restaurants. Gift shops. Candy shops. I bet it’s at least four times the size of Red Clover. Mrs. Harrison finds a nice man in a blue uniform, who takes our suitcases outside and puts them in a taxi.

“Mayflower Hotel, please,” Mrs. Harrison says as she and Mama slide into the backseat. I sit up front with the driver, who’s halfway cute and wearing a nifty beret.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” he says, inching the taxi forward, trying to get into another lane. A crowd of people stands on the sidewalk. Foreigners. Americans. Dressed-up little children holding hands with people who love them to pieces. A gray-haired man kissing a young girl hard on the lips. A United States Marine standing by himself with his eyes closed, his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels. All of them waiting for someone to pick them up and take them to a hotel or a fancy mansion or God knows where.

“You must be one of those spelling champions,” the driver says, looking straight ahead.

“Why do you say that?” I ask.

He looks over at me, his brown eyes shining. “You look
kind of smart. I figure the lady with the black hair is your teacher. The other pretty lady must be your mom.”

“You’re quite perceptive,” I say.

“Where you from—Georgia?” he asks.

“I’m from South Carolina.”

“I bet you’ve never flown before,” he says with a half smirk.

I look over my shoulder. Mama is showing Mrs. Harrison the tattered
White House Tour Guide
she ordered after watching Mrs. Kennedy give the tour on television. Mama is rhapsodizing about how Jackie Kennedy was a terrific First Lady and raised her kids right and all that jazz.

“I’ve flown lots of time,” I say, flipping my hair. “My daddy takes me out in his helicopter all the time.”

“Friggin’ idiot.” He honks the horn and zooms around a white Cadillac.

I can’t believe I’m sitting here in this taxi watching all these cars crissing and crossing the streets of our nation’s capital. I close my eyes and see
vincere est totum—
to win is everything. My main objective. And to act kind and decent and ladylike, no matter what. But deep down, I feel hollow as a whistle. That appendicitis scare about wore me out.

Mama and Mrs. Harrison are yakking about the week’s schedule and what to wear for which event. I’m surprised by how well they are getting along. They’re different as butterflies and zebras. Mrs. Harrison lets her hair bounce around, Mama’s is sprayed stiff. Mrs. Harrison has a master’s degree, Mama barely made it through the ninth grade. But in
her dress-up clothes, Mama looks like a rich, fine lady.

One thing Mama and Mrs. Harrison both believe in is getting me educated.

“Amanda, do you mind being in charge this week? My nerves feel shredded,” Mama says.

“Lila, I love being in charge. Just ask Karlene.” Mrs. Harrison winks at me.

“Yep, you’re a real dictator.”

“Ladies, we’re on Pennsylvania Avenue!” the driver says. “The White House is ahead on the right.” We zip right by, getting only a glimpse of the huge green lawn and the gorgeous mansion. Mama wonders whether Mrs. Nixon has had the time to do any redecorating since they moved into the White House.

Four blocks away, the taxi pulls up to the Mayflower Hotel. We wait in line as other spellers climb out of taxis with their parents, their eyes anxious. I feel happy as hell to see all the spelling freaks. They don’t appear to be fingernail gnawers like me. They look well dressed, well educated, and well loved. Most of them are traveling with their
paterfamilias
. Seeing them with their daddies makes my body feel like a flat tire with a couple nails in it. I try not to remember the cuss words Daddy says in his sleep or the way his socks smell like dead squirrels. I try hard not to think about him running around naked in the snow on the hospital grounds. I close my eyes and take a long, deep breath just like Mrs. Harrison taught me. I imagine myself as a little girl standing beside my daddy, watching him gently remove a hook from my very
first catfish. I hold that image steady in my mind for a while, breathing in and out.

When I open my eyes, I find myself standing on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. Mama’s standing beside me in her beige linen pantsuit and bone-colored pumps, with her head held high. Mrs. Harrison takes over, confident as a Roman senator, and we follow her inside. The lobby is gigantic. Sunlight splashes through tall windows onto fancy rugs covering marble floors. The smiling lady at the registration desk asks about our plane ride as if she really wants to know. A bellman helps us with our luggage. His name tag says
FRANÇOIS.
He’s wearing a nifty burgundy suit with fancy gold
e-p-a-u-l-e-t-s
that make him look like he ought to be working for Napoléon instead of carting our stuff around. In the elevator his long elegant finger pushes number nine. François and Mrs. Harrison are talking in French. Everything he says to her sounds like he’s asking to kiss her pink lips.

François gives us a tour of our attached suites and then gives Mrs. Harrison instructions on how everything works. Right before he leaves, he says, “Good luck, mademoiselle.”

“
Merci
, monsieur,” I say.

He smiles real big, showing his pale yellow teeth. As he heads out the door, Mrs. Harrison gives him a dollar. Then she closes the door and kicks off her shoes. “Karlene needs some rest, don’t you think, Lila?”

Mama looks me up and down. “You look worn out, honey. Why don’t you take a nap?”

“Yes ma’am.” I’m happy to obey, for the first time in a long while.

Later that afternoon I open my eyes and see sunlight streaming through the window onto a bouquet of yellow roses in a crystal vase. Mama is sitting in a green cushiony chair, reading the book about the contestants in the spelling bee. The
GOOD LUCK, KARLENE!
banner signed by the students at Red Clover Junior High hangs on the wall above the mahogany dresser. I sit up and lean a pillow against the headboard.

“Karlene, honey.” Mama jumps out of her chair and stands beside the bed. “How you feeling?”

“Like a whale swallowed me.”

“I’ll get a washcloth for your face.” She goes into the bathroom.

Mrs. Harrison glides into our suite from her adjoining room. “Hello, Your Craziness,” she says in her cheeriest voice.

“Hello, Your Saneness,” I say, still feeling like a zombie.

Mama comes back and she and Mrs. Harrison stand there looking at me, their eyes full of concern. Memories spin in my head of puking and yelping, appendicitis and surgery, of airplanes almost crashing, of sexy-talking bellmen in fancy uniforms. “I’m so tired.” Tears leak from my eyes.

Mrs. Harrison kneels beside the bed and holds my hand.

Mama moves my bangs to the side and dabs a wet washcloth on my face. “Shh, just go back to sleep, honey.
We’ll wake you for supper.” She tucks the soft blanket around my chin right before the whale swallows me again.

Later, Mama nudges me awake and I look around, wondering where I am.

Mrs. Harrison is sitting at the round table, which is covered in a white tablecloth. “Are you hungry?”

“I’m starving, but I need to pee.” I shuffle into the room with pale green silk on the walls and huge fluffy towels on the racks. A basket sits on the marble counter, filled with small containers of lotion, shampoo, and mouthwash. I pee and then wash my face with a tiny bar of almond soap. My eyes look clear and blue and untroubled in the golden oval mirror. As I brush my teeth, those familiar words run through my mind:
Crest has been shown to be an effective decay-preventing dentifrice that can be of significant value when used in a conscientiously applied program of oral hygiene and regular professional care
. Why that dumb sentence got stuck in my brain, I’ll never know. But the rhythm soothes me.

I sit at the table and Mama says the blessing: “God, take this food for the nourishment of our bodies, so that we may be better servants of thine. And please, dear Lord, help us represent ourselves in a way that is pleasing to you this week in our nation’s capital. In Jesus’ name I pray. Amen.”

Room service is a delightful invention. I adore how the shiny silver domes cover up the food. I’m hungry as a piglet, but I force myself to chew one small bite at a time, savoring the taste and texture of the lasagna.

After supper I pick up the booklet and start reading about the week’s activities. The National Spelling Bee is the field trip of all field trips, plus, every night there’s a barbecue or ice cream party or social of some kind. They’re going to cart us all over the place, to the monuments, the art museums, the Smithsonian, the National Zoo, and the White House. There’s also a big banquet on Friday night. By then we’ll all be relaxed and friendly, knowing we’re all winners and all that jazz, no matter if we misspelled
leukemia
or
rapscallion
or
sassafras
.

Across the room, Mama and Mrs. Harrison are sitting in big comfy chairs. Mama’s reading her Bible. Mrs. Harrison’s reading
I’m OK—You’re OK
, a new psychology book. I excuse myself to take a bath. I fill the tub with the hottest water I can stand, add two capfuls of Mama’s Avon bubble bath, then slide into the tub and relax. This bathroom is twice as big as ours, and ten times nicer. The twins are probably taking their bath, popping each other in the face with their washcloths. I feel sorry for Gloria Jean, who moved back in this week to be in charge of the Amazing Bridges Boys, but at least she has a husband to kiss her all over when the lights are out.

After I finish my bath, I put on my new yellow shorty pajamas and then slip between the sheets of heaven.

“Good night, ladies.” Mrs. Harrison arises gracefully in her turquoise kimono and tippy-toes to her room like a geisha.

“I see why you’re so crazy about her.” Mama pulls down
the covers and gets into the double bed across from mine. “I sure am glad she’s with us.”

“Me, too,” I say, and then we both say good night.

For a while I lie in bed pointing my toes and flexing my ankles to get the knotty feeling out of my calves. I sense the whale swimming in the deep, black water around the bed, waiting to swallow me.