Belle Teale Read online

  I leap to my feet but Vernon is not finished. “You’re not going to be in the pageant either,” he says. “There’s not going to be any part for you. Colored people had nothing to do with the birth of Jesus Christ.”

  Very slowly Darryl gets to his feet. “I believe you’re wrong about that,” he replies.

  But Vernon is already stalking off.

  Vernon doesn’t cause any more trouble, and me and Clarice and Darryl go back to Miss Casey’s room after recess with a new episode of City Lights in our notebook.

  We have barely sat down at our desks when Miss Casey, she says, “And now I will assign the parts for the pageant.”

  HRH’s hand shoots up. “Oh, Miss Casey,” she trills, “aren’t we going to try out for the parts?”

  “Well, there are no speaking roles,” Miss Casey replies, “except for the narrator. So there is no reason to try out. I have given this some thought, and I have made my choices.”

  Miss Casey explains that with nineteen of us in the class she has included a lot of shepherds, some townspeople, and a barnful of animals, so’s we can all have parts. She stands before us holding a piece of paper. “Listen carefully,” she says. “I will call out your name, then I will call out the part you will play. If you have any questions, please hold them until I have finished reading the list.”

  Miss Casey leads off with the main characters, and the first one is the narrator. Guess what. Clarice gets that part. She is a very good reader and speaker, so that makes sense. The next role is Joseph, which goes to Stephen Haines. After that is Mary. I about faint when I hear Miss Casey say, “Mary: Belle Teal Harper.”

  Well.

  You could hear a pin drop, I think that everyone, including me, assumed that the role of Mary would go to Vanessa. And frankly, I was hoping to be a rooster, because I have a collection of colorful feathers I can use on my costume. But no, Miss Casey, she clearly pronounced my name after she said “Mary.”

  So there is a tiny scuffle in the air of the classroom, but Miss Casey makes like she doesn’t hear it and just continues on.

  The Three Kings are next. Miss Casey, she says, “Walter Dunney” and “Ray Stomper” for the first two kings. Then she says, “King Gaspar: Darryl Craig.”

  Miss Casey pauses for a second or two after she says this, like she expects some sort of noise, even though she told us to hold our questions. Sure enough, a couple of kids cannot contain themselves. I look around and see a lot of open mouths and frowny foreheads. Then Vanessa cries, “Hey!” entirely forgetting that proper ladies always raise their hands. And Vernon, he calls out, “There wasn’t any ni — any, um, colored people in the time of Jesus Christ, Miss Casey.”

  “Ma’am, he can’t have that part,” adds HRH.

  “And why not?” replies Miss Casey, looking around at all of us.

  “Because of what Vernon just said,” Vanessa answers.

  “Well, I am afraid Vernon is wrong.” Miss Casey puts down her list and stands with her arms crossed.

  “Okay, maybe there were colored people back then, but they were slaves,” speaks up Mae.

  Miss Casey remains calm. “Many people believe,” she says patiently, “that one of the Three Kings was King Gaspar, a dark-skinned man from India or Africa.” She looks around at us a moment longer, then says she won’t entertain any more comments or questions, picks her list back up, and continues reading from it. I realize that Miss Casey still hasn’t said HRH’s name, which means Vanessa is going to get stuck with one of the itty parts. I am fascinated.

  Miss Casey doesn’t say Vanessa’s name until she gets started with the shepherds. I can’t help looking over at HRH to see her reaction. She slumps down in her chair. Cast as a shepherd, losing the part of Mary to me, and a colored boy given the role of a king. This is surely a bad day for Vanessa Amy Wynona Mathers.

  I find out just how bad when school ends and Clarice and I climb onto our bus.

  “Hi, Bernette,” we say.

  “Hello, girls.”

  I lean into Bernette and whisper, “I’m going to be Mary in the Christmas pageant!”

  Bernette grins, showing the spaces where her teeth are missing, and says, “Good for you, honey!”

  “Will you come to the program so’s you can see me?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Thank you!”

  Clarice and I head down the aisle. And the next thing I know, I am sprawling. I fall on my hands and knees, and my books go scattering, then my knees give way and I am lying on my stomach in the aisle of the bus with faces peering down at me from the seats above. I hear Clarice say angrily, “Vanessa, you tripped her on purpose,” which I already know.

  In a flash, I am on my feet. A hundred thoughts wheel around in my head, things I would like to say to Her Royal Highness. But I can also hear Gran saying, “Fight your battles with words, not fists, Belle Teal.” What do I find myself doing instead? I lunge for Vanessa. I am about to grab onto a hunk of that blonde hair of hers when two strong hands separate us and HRH thuds down into her seat with a little cry.

  “Bernette, what did you do that for?” I say. Bernette, she almost never interferes in our kid business. I thought she knew better. And I thought she was my friend. A true friend would let me fight this fight. I almost disinvite Bernette to the pageant, but then I turn my back on everybody and stomp down the aisle toward Clarice, who has gathered up my books for me. As I huff into our seat, I shout to HRH, “Vanessa, you’re just mad because Miss Casey asked me to play Mary instead of you. Well, you are a big, spoiled baby. You can’t have everything your way, you know.”

  Everyone is quiet after that. Even the boys don’t say anything. Later, when Bernette has urged the old bus up our hill I stalk down the aisle, past HRH, who won’t look at me, and to the top of the steps, where I hesitate.

  “Still want me to come to the pageant?” Bernette asks like she is some kind of mind reader.

  “I guess,” I say.

  Inside our chilly house I find Gran in the rocker by the fire. “Is you is or is you ain’t ma’ baby,” she’s singing. She looks like she might be lost in some world in her head, but when she sees me her face lights up. “Belle Teal, tell me all about school!” she cries, just like in the old days last year.

  I’m so happy to find my regular gran that I don’t say anything about what happened on the bus. “Miss Casey, she told us our class is going to put on the pageant in the Christmas program this year,” I tell Gran.

  “Well, my stars. The Christmas pageant. Isn’t that wonderful.”

  “And something else,” I say, trying to feel as excited as I felt before I got on the bus this afternoon. “Miss Casey already assigned our parts in the pageant, and I am going to play . . . Mary.” Even though I had wanted to be a rooster, the more I think about playing Mary, the Holy Mother of Our Lord Jesus, the more special I feel.

  Gran places her hand over her heart. “Heaven above,” she says. “Why, Belle Teal, that’s wonderful.”

  I look at the expression on Gran’s face and I think about the great thing I have been asked to do, the great thing Miss Casey thinks I can do. I decide not to let HRH spoil it for me. I hope Darryl is happy too, happy about playing a king, and then I think to say, “Gran, was one of the Three Kings a colored man?”

  Gran stares into the fire. “Could be,” she says. “There’s all different opinions about such things.”

  I nod my head, and then Gran, she says, “We must think about your costume. I believe I have some blue fabric somewhere that would make a nice robe for you.”

  Gran doesn’t call me Lyman once all night and I whistle her silly “Is you is or is you ain’t” song while I wait for the bus the next morning. When it arrives I whisper, “Sorry about yesterday,” to Bernette before I clomp down the aisle. Then HRH and me, we manage to ignore each other except for her faint little whistling about Beverly Hillbillies, which I guess is meant to convey that HRH thinks Miss Casey assigned a hillbilly girl to play th
e holy part of Mary. Well, so what. Vanessa can think what she thinks.

  In school that day we are all abuzz with the program, and us and Miss Casey spend half an hour talking about the pageant. First there is the matter of our costumes.

  “Each of you will be responsible for providing your own costume,” says Miss Casey. “We can discuss what they should look like, and I will need to approve them when you bring them to school for rehearsals, but you will be making them yourselves at home.

  “Now about Clarice’s narration, we will work on it together in class. Clarice, you are welcome to try to memorize your lines, but if you prefer to read them, that is fine too.

  “We will begin rehearsing in class after Thanksgiving, and later we’ll hold dress rehearsals in the auditorium. Does anybody have any questions?”

  Little Boss raises his hand. “I don’t believe Darryl should be a king,” he says.

  I think he adds “with me” at the end of the sentence, but I am not sure because Miss Casey cuts him off and says in a sharp voice she hardly ever uses, “That is a comment, Ray, not a question, and I do not want to hear another word about this subject from any of you.” Her eyes stray to HRH, and I remember the note HRH’s father sent Miss Casey at the beginning of the year.

  I look over at Darryl. He is sitting up straight, and I think I see pride in his eyes.

  Thanksgiving Day turns out to be a pure delight this year. Mama does manage to get the day before off (although not the day after), so she and Gran and me just cook and cook on Wednesday. Even with all her forgetfulness Gran is still in charge, because she has always been in charge of the cooking. And because Mama really is a terrible cook. The funny thing is that Mama likes to cook. It’s just that she hates to follow recipes.

  From sunup to sundown we cook. Pies and vegetables and rolls and jellied things. Also, I spend two hours in the afternoon making place cards for the table. I want each card to be different and each one to be just right for whoever it’s for. Like for Gran I carefully color some cooking items. And for Mama a typewriter. I have to make ten cards in all and it is quite a job. In the end I am proud of my work.

  The next day — Thanksgiving! I wake up extra early and lie in my room in the dark and wonder about my friends and what they are doing at that exact moment. Clarice, she is probably still asleep. She is not an early bird like me. Darryl might be up already. He and his parents are going to drive for four hours to go to his granddaddy’s house, where they will stay until Saturday.

  After a while I listen for the sound of Gran getting up early, early, early to put the bird in the oven. “The bird” is what Mama calls the turkey. I don’t hear anything at the usual starting-the-turkey hour, though, and when I get up to find out why, I run into Mama in the chilly kitchen.

  “Where’s Gran?” I ask.

  “Still asleep, I think. I’ll just start the bird myself.” This makes me nervous, but Mama does a fine job, so our day is off to a pretty good start.

  Cousin Emery and Cousin Carrie and Cousin Samuel and Cousin March and Cousin Tic and the little ones, Stevie and Lacey, arrive at noon from Penny County. They have had a long drive and when they pile out of their cars they say they are starved.

  Stevie and Lacey, we have to give them a little something to tide them over, but the others say they can wait. So first we all sit around in the kitchen and talk while dishes of food go in and out of the oven and on and off of the stove. An hour later we crowd around the two tables Mama and I pushed together in the parlor. Everyone admires my placecards.

  The feast begins. Oh, there is so much food. Not as much as there will be after the Christmas program at school, but still quite a bit. I sample everything. The more we eat, the noisier we get. Cousin Tic, his voice grows louder and louder as he tells stories. Everyone laughs and gabs, and finally says what a wonderful job me and Mama and Gran did with the meal. Even Cousin Samuel agrees, and he being fourteen, which is just the worst age of all for a boy, that is some compliment.

  Late in the day Cousin March says how they all better be pushing off, they’ll be driving home in the dark as it is. So we have to say good-bye. Lacey, she wraps her skinny arms around my knees and cries, “I don’t want to go! Can’t we stay one more hour?”

  Cousin Carrie says, “Okay, one more hour,” and then she pretends like an hour is a minute, and one minute later she says, “Okay, the hour’s up. Time to go,” and Lacey, she just says, “Okay,” all happy-like.

  When everyone has left and Mama and Gran and me have cleaned up the mess, we sit by the fire for a while. I imagine I am in two places at once — on the braided rug in our parlor with dreams of Christmas and pageants and fruitcakes in my head, and curled in the swing on our porch in the chilly air, watching the smoke from our fire wisp out of the chimney. Sitting there dreaming with Mama and Gran, that is one of the nicest moments of the autumn.

  The next day, Gran is already in the kitchen when I stumble out of bed. I am relieved, remembering how she overslept the morning before.

  In spite of the quantity of food I ate yesterday. I have my mind set on a big breakfast before we go to work. So I say to Gran, “I’ll make breakfast while you get started, okay?” I think how nice it will be to surprise Mama with some of my pancakes to fortify her for the R U Sleep Inn.

  “Okay,” says Gran. “But . . . you stay over there.” She points to the section of counter by the sink.

  I look at the teeny area. “You mean I have to make the pancakes there? Can’t I use the table?”

  “Lord no.”

  “Why not?” The table is bare. There is nothing on it except Gran’s elbows and the recipe card for the fruitcakes.

  “Because . . .” Gran’s voice trails off and she doesn’t answer me.

  I forget about the pancakes. “Gran,” I say suspicious-like. “Where’s all the ingredients for the fruitcakes?”

  “Well, I don’t know.” Gran sounds vague.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?” I run into the pantry, where Gran has been collecting things. Soon I am getting out marmalade and walnuts and slivered almonds and raisins and currants and citron and candied cherries and dried pineapple rings, flour and brown sugar, bourbon and spices. So many spices — nutmeg and cinnamon and cloves. Seven in all, including the salt. Then thirty-six eggs. Thirty-six. Since Gran always triples the recipe.

  By the time our ingredients are lined up in front of us, Gran looks a little more like Gran. She helps me set out the baking tins and waxed paper and cheesecloth.

  “Now may I make the pancakes?” I ask.

  “Pancakes?” Gran replies. “Whatever for? We have to start the fruitcakes.”

  I study the tin with the card-playing dogs, which it is time to give up. I have decided that Clarice’s family should get the tin this year. “I was going to make pancakes for Mama. You said I could, remember?”

  “Of course I remember. Why are people always asking me if I remember?” Gran snaps.

  This is not fair as I know I have been careful about not saying “Remember? Remember?” to Gran, like I sometimes hear Mama say to her. And who are these “people” Gran is talking about?

  I am mad. “What people?” I demand.

  “The . . . the ones who call on me and want to know things . . .”

  “Morning, everybody!” says Mama cheerfully from the doorway. “My, you two are going to be busy today. I’ll just grab some coffee and get on out of here.”

  Nobody wants my pancakes anyway.

  When Mama leaves, Gran surveys the kitchen table. “Well, my land, it’s fruitcake day, isn’t it? We better get started. Where’s the . . . the . . . that white thing.”

  “The recipe card? It’s right over there.”

  “Goodness, Belle Teal. What would I do without you?” says Gran as I hand her the card.

  That card, it is so ancient and dirty that I can’t read it at all. And it is so worn, it feels like fabric. But Gran is not bothered by this. She squints at the card and looks at it from s
everal different angles, then announces that we can get to work.

  “First we cream the butter and the sugar,” she says.

  I stop myself from saying, “Are you sure?” because it seems to me that we always start with pouring the fruits and nuts into a bowl. I actually have my hand on the chopper to chop up the walnuts.

  “All right,” I say, and I reach for the butter.

  We do things a little differently that day. We get it all done, just not in the usual order. Gran and me, we work and work, and outside, the day slips around us, weak morning sun and stronger noon sun and fading afternoon light. It is suppertime and full-on dark before Gran proclaims us finished. There are a couple of eggs left over plus half a jar of marmalade, and we didn’t have quite enough raisins or candied cherries, so the fruit end of things is a little skimpy. Plus we went through much more bourbon than usual. Things haven’t come out as even as in previous years. Still, Gran and I congratulate ourselves on our good work, and our house smells glorious, like Christmas.

  I imagine my classmates sampling the fruitcake. I can see it all sliced up into polite little squares, laid out on napkins with poinsettias on them. Miss Casey herself tries a piece. “Oh, my,” she says. “Why, this fruitcake gives fruitcake a good name. It is just delicious and it doesn’t weigh a ton. You must give me the recipe, Belle Teal.”

  Next HRH Vanessa tries a piece. She doesn’t say anything, but she licks her lips. Then she takes another piece. She can’t help herself.

  I decide that when that happens I will be very gracious-like and compliment her on her mother’s French lace cookies.

  Christmas is a fine holiday. There is nothing I don’t like about it — the music and the decorations and the surprises and the presents and chopping down our Christmas tree. This year is even better, with our pageant and all. So I don’t mind one bit when school starts up again after Thanksgiving vacation, because now there are only a few more weeks until Christmas, and in my mind they are the best weeks of the year.