Char thumbs through a booklet of poses with Viv posing in her majorette uniform. Woody Garrett is taking the pictures. He’s using the Kodak Retina II that he’d ordered from Nick’s Camera Shop, and when he got the notice of its arrival, he caught the early bus to Burlington. In those days, the camera was seldom out of his hand. He’d go up and down the streets, taking pictures of everyone and everything, making a nuisance out of himself. The photographs are now displayed in the new town hall under a wood-burned slab of pine that says, “Yesteryear in Harshbarger Mills.” Char is in one of the pictures; a graduating class of some year or another, the photo so old that thankfully everyone’s face is blurred. Yes, she remembers standing on the steps of the school with her class, a total of 48. The photographer yelled for everyone to smile because some of the girls had started crying. Afterwards, Woody had taken pictures of the class himself and Viv in her majorette uniform. Because she was head majorette, she’s wearing a tall furry hat with a royal blue plume and matching epaulettes. Her boots are visibly polished. Woody had probably snapped a dozen pictures of Viv before the other majorettes gathered around. Woody had always been a ladies’ man; Viv had been stringing him along. She liked to have her picture taken. As she flips through, she remembers other times with Viv and Max. The time they took the pledge together at a revival meeting, sledding at Whitehall Hill, and the elocution lessons they’d taken from Mrs. Jones. Fat lot of good those did her; she’d been too scared to perform. The next picture is face down, and when she turns it over, her heart begins to pound. She’s remembered this day every day of her life. There’s the three of them, Viv, Max, and herself in the middle, standing in front of Bessie Jo’s Beauty Shop. It’s the morning of the Sweetheart Ball. While other girls all over town are getting Toni Home Permanents, known to blister scalps and frizz hair, Max has scheduled all three of them with Bessie Jo. Bessie Jo had grumbled about three perms in one day and the earliness of the hour, but Maxie had laid the tip on the kitchen table. A crisp twenty slipped from her father’s wallet. Maxie’s father falls asleep every evening with a drink in his hand. Bessie Jo’s eye had bugged out. They are posing beside the huge flamingo that Bessie kept in her yard, and Woody is snapping like mad. He’d nearly run his legs off after Viv in those days. There’s a shadow to the left, a man with the sun behind him, and she recognizes Frank. The trembling in her hands goes straight to her heart, and she feels the onset of tears. Then, they stop. It’s not from lack of sorrow, for the water is always there; it’s her decision when to turn the tap. They’re all smiling, full of themselves. Maxie has her head thrown back in laughter. She can hear that laugh now. Horsey, her mother had called it, but Max had Dempsy in her and there was no help for that. Dempsy or not, when she laughed everyone laughed with her. She wanted to say that to her mother. She says it now. Char remembers getting the cold wave, the cutting of her hair, the spirals, the cool lotions dripping down. Bessie Jo had parted her hair on the side and cut a fringe, which made her long face look less so. Viv and Max both had their hair parted in the middle, crimped on either side. Viv had tiny curls above her forehead. All three had worn dresses cut from the same pattern, though in different colors. Char’s was lavender silk with an overlay of white gauze. Viv’s was white on white, and Maxie’s blue. Viv’s mom had sewn gauze wraps for each that could be looped at the shoulders. The dance had been magical, for everyone had a sweetheart. Frank McGhee stepped up for Char and claimed every dance. He asked to walk her home and she accepted; she was as loathe to part from him as he was from her. Because Char talked less, Frank talked more, stumbling over heavy-booted feelings. He’d always admired her. Hell, he . . . She remembered he stopped then, and began to cough. He’d said “Excuse me,” and began again, telling her he knew he came from a bad family and wasn’t much himself, but if there was a chance . . . He’d been proposing when Father came roaring out, threatening to horsewhip him for walking alone with his daughter. He’d ordered Char inside, but she’d stayed by Frank. Her presence hadn’t mattered; it was between the men. Shy, red-faced even without the alcohol, and nearly crying himself, Frank said he’d meant no disrespect and slouched away, half running, half walking. Char had stopped shaking, for at that moment, she’d been certain of something. She’d never belong to anyone or anything but this moment, stuck for all her years. |
