Spelldown (5 page)

I lean across the booth and ask, “How is Snidely in the sex department?”

Her eyes open real wide and she shakes her glossy hair. “Now, Karlene Bridges, I don’t believe that’s any of your business.”

“Ah, Gloria Jean,
pleeease
tell me. Do you like it?”

“Uh, I like
it
all right, I guess.” She shrugs her shoulders. “The first five or six times was pretty rough, but it’s gotten better, I think.”

The
first
five or six times. Holy moly.

“Since you’ve been living with Snidely for a while now, what’s the weirdest thing you’ve found out about him?”

“Your brother-in-law’s name is Wendell, not Snidely.” She gives me Mama’s lecturing look. “And the weirdest thing about him is that he irons my clothes.”

“You’re lying!”

“I’m telling you, that man
loves
to iron. Says it relaxes him. Every Sunday night, he pulls out the ironing board and irons while we watch television.”

A vision of Wendell standing at the ironing board in boxer shorts flashes through my mind. I start screeching and scratching my underarms like a goofy monkey, then I stand and tip my imaginary hat. “Smart fellow, that Wendell Whetstone. Real smart fellow,” I say, then go back to my monkey impersonation. Gloria Jean cackles, then yanks me by the arm and pulls me out of the Creamery into the parking lot, where we fall all over each other laughing our butts off. I have to cross my legs to keep from peeing on myself.

On the drive home, I try to talk her into spending the night, but she and Wendell have to take Itty-Bitty, his ancient, ratty little dog, to the veterinarian. Their marriage sounds boring as two graves.

1: fussy about small details

2: requiring great precision

3: FASTIDIOUS

“Desi, will you please spell
buccinator?”
Mrs. Helms, the Giver of Words, says into the microphone.

Desi sighs and clenches his fists. “May I have the definition, please?”

“A thin, flat muscle that forms the wall of the cheek, assisting in chewing and in blowing wind instruments,” she says.

Desi grits his teeth, flexing his buccinators, the twangy odor of fear coming through his pores. It’s Friday afternoon, the first week of October. Out of twenty contestants, only Andrea, Desi, and I remain in the Red Clover Junior High Spelling Bee. And I’m sweating like a piglet. Every time I fidget, my chair squeaks. There’s a crowd of about a hundred seated on the bleachers. Mainly teachers, honor-roll students, and parents of the spellers.

“Mr. Sistare—will you please spell the word?” Madame Blah-blah-blah’s acting all stoical, sitting at the table with
the principal, but she’s wearing a low-cut gray silk shirt that shows off her wrinkly cleavage. My sense of humor irritates the pee out of her.

“Yes ma’am.” Desi pronounces the word, then spells
b-u-c-k-i-n-a-t-o-r
.

“I’m sorry, Desi, that is incorrect,” Mrs. Helms says in her flat voice. At least we don’t have to hear an obnoxious bell ring like we do at the county spelling bee.

Desi walks over, climbs the bleachers, and sits beside Mrs. Harrison.

“Now, will our final two contestants please stand for the final round?” Mrs. Helms says. We both stand up. “Andrea, will you please spell
buccinator?”

Andrea smoothes out her red plaid skirt, pronounces the word, and spells
b-u-c-c-i-n-a-t-o-r
.

“That is correct, Andrea.”

“Karlene, will you please spell
contumacious?”

I know the definition, but want to stall. My eyes wander over to Daddy. He’s sitting on the bottom row of the bleachers with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, as if he’s watching a basketball game. He looks sober and handsome in his clean work clothes. “May I hear the definition, please?”

“Contumacious means stubbornly disobedient or rebellious.”

In a clear voice, I say the word, then spell
c-o-n-t-u-m-a-c-i-o-u-s
.

“That is correct. Now, Andrea, will you please spell
hierarchy?”
Mrs. Helms pronounces it
high-ar-ky
.

Andrea makes a wimpy sound like a balloon going flat. “Will you say the word again, please?”

Mrs. Helms mispronounces it again. My heart skips a few beats for Andrea.

Andrea clears her throat. “May I have a definition, please?”

“It’s an organization whose members are arranged in ranks according to power and seniority.”

Andrea mispronounces it, then spells
h-i-g-h-a-r-c-h-y
.

“I’m sorry, Andrea, that’s incorrect.”

Andrea gives me a weak smile and walks away, pulling her kneesocks up along the way. I can’t believe she didn’t know that word. The Giver of Words ought to be able to pronounce the words, or else give up the job.

“Karlene, will …”

Mrs. Helms is talking, but I’m not paying attention. I breathe deeply, trying to oxygenate my sludgy blood, so that I can remember the contest rules about pronunciation.
The judges may not disqualify a speller for asking a question
.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Helms, but I’m concerned about that last word. Is it possible for you to check the pronunciation before we proceed?”

She gives me a double shot of the evil eye. “Pardon me?”

Not a soul in the gym moves. A sharp pain spirals through my temples. She’s the only teacher I’ve ever had who I can’t get close to, not even a little bit. I always try to show her
respect like I’ve been taught, but sometimes it’s difficult. She’s pretty ignorant for a teacher.

I fire the second stone from my slingshot. “Ma’am, in my dictionary,
hierarchy
has four syllables, and it’s pronounced
high-er-ar-ky.”

Mrs. Helms’s face looks like an old vase about to shatter. Mr. Barrineau whispers in her ear, then flips to the word in the dictionary, and they discuss it.

She rises from her chair. “Andrea, I beg your pardon, I mispronounced the word.” She says in a higher, louder voice, “Will you please rejoin us?”

My blood is swishing through my arteries. Andrea comes up and stands beside me, and whispers thank you.

“Now, Andrea, will you please spell
dastardly?”

“Dastardly.
D-a-s-t-a-r-d-l-y
. Dastardly,” Andrea says.

“That is correct. Karlene, will you please spell
floriferous?”

“Yes ma’am, I will! Floriferous.
F-l-o-r-i-f-e-r-o-u-s
. Floriferous.” I enunciate every syllable.

“That is correct. Now, Andrea, will you please spell
gerenuk?”

“May I have the definition?” she says, her voice shaky.

“A reddish brown antelope native to East Africa.”

“Gerenuk.
G-e-r-i-n-u-k,”
Andrea says.

“I’m sorry, Andrea. That is incorrect.”

“Karlene, will you please spell
gerenuk?”

“Gerenuk.
G-e-r-e-n-u-k,”
I say.

“That’s correct. Now, will you please spell
pluripotent?”

I love this word. I breathe in and out, using the strategy Mrs. Harrison taught me, playing Hangman in my head. On the blackboard of my mind, I visualize the consonants first, leaving spaces for the vowels:
pl-r-p-t-nt
. Then I fill the blanks with vowels:
u-i-o-e
. The word is crystal clear on the board, so I pronounce it and spell
p-l-u-r-i-p-o-t-e-n-t
.

Mrs. Helms just stands there like an ice statue. The silence is deep and wide, as if time has stopped. But then Andrea starts clapping. Then Desi stands up and claps, and Mrs. Harrison lets out an earsplitting whistle as if I’d just scored the winning basket. The rest of the crowd starts to applaud, and Daddy raises his hands high above his head, clapping, clapping, clapping.

The principal says into the microphone, “Congratulations, Karlene. I’m proud of you and all the great spellers who competed today. I’d also like to thank Mrs. Helms and all the parents and teachers for their participation.” He walks over to me and leans close. “It took a lot of courage to challenge that pronunciation.”

“I felt it was the right thing to do, sir.”

“Right or not, it was very brave,” he says, with a look that says I’ll probably suffer for it. Over at the table, Mrs. Helms gathers her things quickly, then slips out the side door. God Almighty. I didn’t mean to embarrass her. Maybe if I kill her with kindness for a few weeks, things will work out.

Several of my friends and a few teachers come up and congratulate me. Daddy waits on the sidelines until everyone
has left, and then comes over and puts his arm around my shoulder. “You done good, baby.”

“Thanks.” I stand there with his arm around me, feeling awkward. He’s never gotten off work to come to any of my extracurricular activities before. “Why aren’t you at work?”

“I told them I’d be late today because of your spelling bee.”

Mrs. Harrison walks over and congratulates me, then offers Daddy her hand. “You must be Mr. Bridges. I’m Mrs. Harrison.”

Daddy shakes her hand gently. “Mrs. Harrison, it’s nice to meet you. Karlene talks about you all the time.” Then he says to me, “You need me to take you home before I go to work?”

“I’m spending the night at the Harrisons’. I’m going to babysit tomorrow.”

“Oh, I forgot about that.” He squeezes my hand. “Don’t forget to call your mama.” He walks away like
Father Knows Best
in dungarees.

1: very liberal in giving or bestowing: LAVISH

2: characterized by great liberality or generosity

“I need to stop by my husband’s office,” Mrs. Harrison says as her shiny aquamarine station wagon glides over the railroad tracks in front of the mill. She parks in front of a building that looks like a fancy two-story lodge, and puts on some lipstick. “I want you to go inside with me.”

We take the stairs to the second floor, then walk down the hall to a door with a gold plaque that says
JACK HARRISON, PLANT MANAGER.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Harrison,” a young woman says, then comes over to us from behind her desk. She looks like Miss Sweden from the Miss Universe pageant, her blond hair swept into a French twist.

“Please, Jessica, call me Amanda. I’d like for you to meet one of my finest students, Karlene Bridges.”

I shake Jessica’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

“Pleased to meet you, Karlene.”

“Is Jack in?”

“I’ll let him know you’re here.” She sits down at her desk, pushes a button, and tells Mr. Harrison his wife is here to see him. “Tell her to come in,” we hear him say.

“Karlene, I need to speak with Jack in private first, then I’ll introduce you two.” She glides into his office in her flowing lilac skirt, white lace shell, and beige flats.

“Mind if I look around?” I ask Miss Sweden.

“Go right ahead.”

Photos in dark wooden frames cover three of the walls. I walk along and read the date and description beneath each one.
1895:
the exterior of the Red Clover Plant
1918:
Colonel High standing with workers in the spindle room.
1929:
spooling-room workers wearing uniforms made from company cloth.
1931:
the new heir to High Cotton, his shirtsleeves rolled up, standing behind a huge machine and looking cocky as all get-out.
1944:
a banner outside the mill proclaiming the Army-Navy Excellence Award.
1945-1959:
full-color ads from a campaign
that revolutionized the ad industry with its sassy, clever humor
. All the women illustrated in the advertisements have lots of curves and plenty of cleavage, as if they’re bursting at their seams for love.

The last one is from 1962. It’s a group of loom fixers standing beside the first Draper shuttleless loom delivered to the mill. I look closely and see that one of the men is Daddy! His head is tilted, and he looks young and wistful. Looking at these photographs gives me that sad feeling I get when Mama talks about picking cotton until her hands bled when she was little.

Miss Sweden types away, her long slender fingers dancing over the keyboard. If I could type like that, I’d be happy as hell. When she pulls the letter from the typewriter, I ask to
use the phone. Then I call Mama and give her all the details about my victory, except for the part where I corrected Mrs. Helms. She’d worry up a migraine over that one. So I tell her that I’m in Mr. Harrison’s office, looking at old pictures, and that there’s one with Daddy in it. “That’s nice,” she says. I tell her I’ll see her tomorrow. “Be good,” she says, and hangs up. A lonely feeling arises in my heart, but I will it away, because I don’t want to worry about Mama. Not tonight.

A while later Mrs. Harrison comes out of the office holding hands with Mr. Harrison, both of them looking flushed, but relaxed. “Jack, I’d like for you to meet Karlene Bridges, the new spelling champion of Red Clover Junior High School.”

“Hello, Mr. Harrison,” I say, and curtsy like the choir director taught me to do after singing a solo. I can’t believe how handsome he is. Dark-brown hair. Clean shaven. He looks famous, with that crisp white shirt, fancy gold cufflinks, and royal blue tie.

Mrs. Harrison looks tickled about something. “Curtsying is only required before royalty.” She laughs.

But Mr. Harrison clicks his heels, then bows from the waist. “I’m delighted to meet you, Karlene. Congratulations on your big victory.” He motions me toward his door. “Would you like to take a look around?”

“Thank you, sir.” I walk into an office that’s five times bigger than our living room and ten times as fancy.

“I’ll leave you two alone for a minute. I have to call Mrs. Cora, to check on the kids.” Mrs. Harrison walks away.

“Wow!” I walk over to the aquarium that covers the length of one of the walls. Fishes of all sizes, colors, and shapes swim around in the sparkling clear water. “It’s lovely, Mr. Harrison.”

“I’m glad you like it,” he says. “It helps relieve stress around here.”

We walk from one end of the aquarium to the other. He points out various fish and tells me about them. A couple of bright orange fish catch my eye. “What kind of fish are these?”