The Right Thing (8 page)

She's walking back into the white living room, across the tundra of snowy Berber carpet to the front door. “So don't tell me what I know or don't know, Annie Banks,” she flings over her shoulder. “The life I've led, I know a thing or two about trouble and how to kick its ass 'round the front yard.”

Starr is at the front door now, opening it to the entryway. All I have to do now is walk through that door, push the button for the elevator, and this is all over.

“Maybe after the holiday, we can get together,” I offer, floundering in another meaningless social reflex.

But Starr's pointed little face is a study in detachment, seemingly engaged in battle elsewhere. Her hand on the doorknob, she says, “Bobby and those old bitches over to Maison-Dit might have won this round, but I'm not near done for yet. I just got to get to New Orleans.”

“New Orleans? Why?”

“Somebody's holding onto my money for me down there,” she says grimly. “I mean to get it.”

“But New Orleans!” I exclaim. “Starr, that's three hours from here, and you don't have a car.”

As the words leave my lips, somewhere on the penthouse floor of the Tower, a dog commences a low, miseried howling. It must be in the other condo, and it sounds as desperate as I feel. “How in the hell are you going to get there?” I argue.

“I'll work something out,” Starr says, waving a dismissive hand. “I always do. I can hitchhike if I got to.” Standing in the doorway with her sweater riding up over the bulge of her belly, the gaping waist of her skirt fastened with safety pins, Starr positively swaggers. But then, she never did back away from much of anything.

Now, like the soundtrack to a Swedish melodrama, the howling next door climbs a scale of dog angst from a basso profundo of loneliness to the mountaintop region of I-need-to-pee. And then, it's only then, that I finally understand that I can't walk out of this hideous penthouse leaving her alone and without a prayer of help.

“I, I could give you the money to take the train,” I stammer, wishing I could put my fingers in my ears.

The howling doesn't faze Starr. “I thought on the train already,” she says. “Amtrak's booked until after Saturday. So is Greyhound, and I've got to get this done before tomorrow afternoon.”

“Why the rush?” I ask, frustrated. Why won't that dog shut up? Raising my voice to be heard over the howling, I demand, “Seriously, Starr—why don't you wait until after Thanksgiving?”

“I can't,” Starr says loudly. “They mean to put me out of the condo by Friday, and my money's at the Fair Grounds.”

“You couldn't keep your money in the bank like the rest of America?” I'm practically shouting. And then, as if the sound of our voices comforts it, the dog stops howling. Instead, it whimpers at the base of the other penthouse's door, snuffling against the jamb to fetch up our scent.

“Look.” I sag against the door frame, half in and half out. “I'd drive you, but today's just impossible. Like I said, I have to be at this partners' dinner tonight, and tomorrow's Thanksgiving, for God's sake. I couldn't do it until Friday at the earliest.” Maybe I can get away with a day trip to New Orleans after Thursday, maybe nobody will figure it out—if I'm careful. And lucky.

But Starr shakes her head in resolute denial. “Friday's too late.”

And so it comes down to this: I have a new black dress hanging in the back of the Beemer. I have a husband who'll be home in less than an hour, expecting me to be in that dress and putting on my makeup for an evening of too much chardonnay and sanitized chitchat with Jackson's rich and powerful. I have a million reasons why I should get my ass home and away from this evolving catastrophe. I have no reason at all for what I say next.

“All right! I'll drive you to New Orleans. Be ready by six thirty.” Like punctuation, the dog barks once and then goes quiet, silent as the space between us.

What else can I do? I won't deny her again.

“B
ecause President Kennedy wants you to, that's why.”

Miss Bufkin, my pretty second-grade teacher whom I usually adored, said this to me with a layer of exasperation over her habitual cheerfulness. The President's Council on Physical Fitness had sent out a directive for all of us schoolchildren to live our lives with vigor. John F. Kennedy himself had walked fifty miles to inspire the American public, and today our class was doing its part by running the fifty-yard dash.

“Yes'm,” I muttered, and got back into the line of kids waiting their turn.

I didn't see the point of sprinting the length of the softball field while Miss Bufkin timed me with a shiny stopwatch, certainly not more than once. The bright, cold October afternoon was perfect for kickball, a sport I was really good at. Besides, the time tests were humiliating since I was slow, slower than everybody else except for Laddie Buchanan and the girl with the back brace. Even lumbering Lisa Treeby was faster than I was, for Pete's sake, and that was just plain insulting.

Starr, however, had outrun Roger Fleck, the fastest boy in our class, and what's more, she was handicapped by her shoes. Looking as though they had come out of a Goodwill bin, those brown lace-ups, with their thick soles and clunky heels, must have weighed a pound apiece. If she'd owned a pair of Keds like mine, she probably would have been able to fly.

Not so me. After what seemed like my fifty-fifth trip up the softball field, I was finally allowed to collapse in a panting, disgusted heap under the pine tree behind the wire-mesh backstop. Starr was still speeding down the field, now in contention for the fastest kid in the whole second grade, not just Miss Bufkin's class. I watched with a dawning envy as she proceeded to trounce the other class's finalist.

“Running is for boys,” said Julie Posey, sitting next to me under the pine tree. The most popular, and therefore powerful, girl in the second grade, Julie adjusted the full skirt of her pink dress and made a face. “That girl”—she pointed at Starr—“thinks she's so great, running with the boys. Well, she's not.”

Nearly two months into the school year, Starr was not fitting in. Her clothes showed the unmistakable stigmata of her mother's absence: unironed, petticoat-less dresses and a telling lack of hair ribbons. And as if that wasn't bad enough, her sorghum-thick accent marked her as surely as if she had “hick” mimeographed across her forehead in purple ink. Even lovely Miss Bufkin didn't seem to care for her much. Starr was never asked to clap erasers or carry notes to the principal's office. She wasn't called on in class, nor had her artwork been displayed on the classroom walls. Basically, it was like her desk was an empty one. Julie, Lisa, and I got our names written on the chalkboard for being good students, but Starr, whose grades were identical to mine and who was always quiet and well behaved, hadn't had her name up there once this year and it was almost Halloween.

This injustice rankled since it was the first time I'd ever had a front-row seat witnessing an adult's unfairness—other than my grandmother's, that is—and even though I very much wanted to take Miss Bufkin to task for her discrimination, I knew better. It was just a matter of time before my name was in her slim green ledger-book with the rest of the problem kids. The miracle was that I'd masqueraded for nearly two months as a model second-grader. Sooner or later, Miss Bufkin would find me out and any leverage I might have accumulated would vanish faster than Starr could run, so I kept my thoughts on justice to myself, hoarding my spurious capital.

“Hey,” Starr called. She was trotting across the patchy grass of the softball field, victorious from her rout of the entire second grade. Reaching the backstop, she threw herself to the ground beside me. “I guess I won,” she said with a satisfied grin.

Julie sniffed and made a big point of looking away. I had a hard time returning Starr's smile myself. Up until today, in the country of our friendship we'd been equal citizens, with me being a little more equal than she when it came to clothes, other stuff, and an assured place in the second grade's ruling class. With Starr's newfound celebrity, the status quo had shifted, and I was far from comfortable with this development.

Starr didn't seem to notice. She fell backward on the thick, fragrant carpet of brown pine needles, arms clasped behind her head, a blissful smile on her face. “Yep,” she sighed in contentment. “I whupped everybody.”

“Show-off,” Julie sneered.

Now, Julie Posey was the biggest show-off ever. She already had a boyfriend in her Sunday school class at the First Baptist Church, brought a purse to school, and boasted about sleeping in hair rollers so her mouse-brown ponytails would hang in bouncy ringlets. Last year, Julie's mother, Squeaky Posey, put her daughter's picture in the Jackson paper, the
Clarion-Ledger,
for her piano recital. Julie even brought her Shetland pony to show-and-tell and gave a favored few rides around the softball field. Having been one of those kids clutching the horn of Socks's miniature Western saddle, I knew from show-offs and Starr wasn't one of them.

Still, I didn't say anything, but idly scratched my name in the red dust with a twig while nascent envy poked its head into the light like a sly Johnson weed in a rose bed.

Already wise to the Julies of the world, Starr shrugged her thin shoulders. “Want to go get a ball and practice kicking?” she asked me. “Miss Bufkin said we could since the time tests are done.” I didn't answer, but Julie did.

“Let's go get a drink of water.” She put her hand on mine. “I'm thirsty.” All three of us got up, brushing the dust from our skirts, but Julie said, “No show-offs allowed.” She smiled an unpleasant smile. “Only Annie and me are going.”

Starr's face fell. She looked at the ground, stricken. “Oh.” Her voice was small, and she looked even smaller in her faded blue dress and clodhopper shoes.

“C'mon, Annie,” Julie said loftily. And for my everlasting shame, I went. To this day, drinking-fountain water—lukewarm, flat, and metallic—tastes like a mouthful of guilt to me.

But envy, that robust weed, shot up another rank inch or two when, after recess, Miss Bufkin announced Starr was the president's winner in front of the whole class. Everybody clapped, except for Julie and her circle of carefully blank-faced friends.

And me.

 

After the ban was lifted, Starr and I had walked home together every day after school, but that afternoon I was yanked into Julie Posey's orbit forthwith. For six blocks she talked of nothing but what a show-off Starr was, how she was just downright trashy, and anyway
real
girls didn't run as fast as boys.

For my part, I was mostly silent, wishing I had never fallen in with Julie's assumption that I'd walk home with her. I kept thinking of how hurt Starr had looked, and how it was I who had done the hurting. It wasn't even worth the effort of trying to lay the blame on Julie Posey because ever since kindergarten she'd been like a tornado that way—destructive by nature, impervious to the damage she wreaked. Before Starr, I'd been a mere bystander observing the hurt feelings, the petty horrible-nesses she left in her wake like smashed cars and flattened houses. By denying Starr, however, I'd become another member of Julie's flock of sycophantic parakeets.

“See you tomorrow,” she said when we reached my house.

“Yeah,” I said in a low voice, my hand on the gate. “See you tomorrow.”

For once, my mother was home when I let myself inside the big front door and came into the entryway. Wearing a nubby Harris Tweed suit, she was sitting in the Queen Anne chair in the living room and talking on the telephone. Her crocodile pumps were kicked under the coffee table, her stockinged feet resting on the old-fashioned, fringed hassock. In front of the fireplace, she was backlit by the early fire that was crackling on the hearth. As I passed in the hallway, she waved a hand distractedly, indicating that I should come in and sit down. I slouched over to the camelback sofa and threw myself into its down-filled cushions, dropping my book bag at my feet.

“The Snow Ball?” My mother's face glowed with an animation I hadn't seen for quite a while. “Of course, Squeaky. I'd love to!” In the last week or so, there'd been a thaw in the winter of her exile from Jackson society, the phone had rung often, and she'd been lots more cheerful. Today, the loud person on the other end of the line, Julie's mother, yodeled on at length while my mother listened, twisting the phone cord in her slim fingers. I leafed through my health book. The drawings of boys and girls dutifully brushing their teeth and making wise choices from the food pyramid did nothing for my tortured conscience.

At last, my mother put the phone down in its black cradle. She lit a cigarette with the cut-crystal lighter on the table beside her. “Well,” she said, “that was Squeaky Posey. I'm back on the Ball committee.”

I grunted.

“I saw you walked home with Julie. That's nice.”

I didn't answer, but closed my health book with a loud sigh.

“You certainly seem to be crossways with the world this afternoon.” My mother began to slip into her high-heeled pumps, then stopped. Her green eyes narrowed, and she inhaled a drag on her cigarette. “Annie Banks,” she said, “are you in trouble?”

“No, ma'am,” I mumbled.

“Then what on earth is the matter?” Her tone was impatient as she exhaled a long ribbon of smoke.

“I did something mean today,” I said, not able to look at her.

“Mean? Did you punch Laddie Buchanan again?” She sounded alarmed. If my grandmother got wind of any further Laddie assaults, there'd be hell to pay.

“No.” I shook my head. “I was mean to Starr, but it wasn't fair—she's going to get a medal and I didn't get
anything
. And, and . . . Julie said Starr was a show-off. I didn't say it.” I was defiantly miserable, seeking the solace of confession but unable to force myself to get around to it.

“So what did you say?” my mother asked. She mashed her cigarette out in the ashtray.

“Nothing.” I swallowed. “But that was the mean part.” I hugged my health book to my chest. “I shouldn't have not walked home with her either. That was mean, too. Starr had to walk by herself.”

My mother's face was thoughtful. She must have seen the opportunity lying there like a twenty-dollar bill in the street: she must have understood that there wouldn't be a better time to sever my undesirable connection to Starr once and for all.

But instead, she said, “That doesn't sound like you, Annie. Are you ashamed?”

I nodded, relieved to get the whole awful business out in the open. “I want to make it better, but I don't know how.” My mother motioned to me to come to her. I put my health book down, slowly got up, and walked over to the chair beside the fire.

“Sit in my lap,” she said. When I was comfortable, my head resting against her soft tweed bosom, she said, “When you do something mean, you should apologize.”

“I can't.” I hid my face in her shoulder. “Starr'll be so mad at me.”

“I bet she's not,” my mother said. “I bet if you run over there, she'll be glad to see you.” She stroked my hair and kissed the top of my head. “I know you'll do the right thing, Annie.”

I could have sat in her lap forever, peacefully breathing in the combined scents of her perfume and fire-warmed tweed, but with a brisk pat on my leg my mother eased me to my feet.

“Go on.” She smiled. “The right thing's always easier if you get to it straight away.”

 

Outside on the front steps, the air smelled of wood smoke from our chimney. I passed through the front gate with dragging feet, dawdling in an aimless way toward the end of the block. Somehow, it didn't seem right to go to Starr's house through the backyard, over the Allens' fence. Instead, I intended to turn left and go the long way around the block, turning down Poplar and then over to Gray Street. The days were getting shorter now, and the afternoon's shallow light was sinking fast into the west's cold blue sky. It would be Halloween soon.

Somewhere far away across Fortification Street, the raised voices of what might have been a particularly physical touch-football game rose and fell in the chill October evening. I recognized a stentorian bellow of bloody intent: Buddy Bledsoe, the fourth-grade terror of Fairmont Street. Even Joel Donahoe avoided Buddy, the biggest kid in the neighborhood who wasn't in junior high. Back before the calamitous bridge party, back when our mothers had been on speaking terms, Mrs. Bledsoe had referred to her son as “husky,” an inapt expression for an oversized troglodyte with a pit bull temper. This past summer, he and his cohorts had been at Boy Scout camp, but now it was fall and they were back to slaughtering the kids unfortunate enough to fall afoul of them. Yes, Buddy and his gang were feared and loathed, but it didn't do any good telling grown-ups. Buddy wore a different face to them, a guileless face of pie-eyed boyish charm, but behind their backs, the approach of Buddy Bledsoe was like witnessing an Illinois Central locomotive come to juddering life, a locomotive with savage fists and feet.
Nobody
messed with Buddy Bledsoe.

Still, focused upon my apology, I didn't give the boys and whatever they might be up to much thought as I turned the corner onto Gray Street to walk the long stretch before Starr's house. In passing the Bledsoes' three-story brick Colonial, though, I crossed the street to give their yardman, Tate, a wide berth. Tate Barlow, Methyl Ivory's grandson, also worked for my parents sometimes, doing odd jobs like cleaning out the gutters, mowing the lawn in the summertime, and hammering the garage back together after I'd run the Buick into it. A tall, taciturn man, his wide shoulders straining the faded blue straps of his bib overalls, Tate intimidated me with his black, closed face, even though he'd never had two words to say to me. He reminded me of the shadows living in my closet, the ones who claimed the corners of my room after the lights were out, the ones that scared me witless even though I was too big to be afraid of the dark.