Shiloh and Other Stories - Bobbie Ann Mason [20]
For her birthday, Sharon’s parents gave her a Toni doll that took my breath away. It had a bolero sundress, lace-edged panties and slip, and white shoes and socks—an outfit as fine as any of Lunetta’s. It came with a Play Wave, including plastic spin curlers and Toni Creme Rinse. The doll’s magic nylon hair was supposed to grow softer in texture the more you gave it permanent waves. Feeling self-conscious in my new playsuit, I sat quietly at the party, longing to give that doll a permanent.
Eventually, even though I had hardly opened my mouth, someone laughed at my accent. I had said the unfortunate word “hair” again, in reference to the doll.
Sharon said, “She’s from Kentucky.”
Growing bold and inspired, I said, “Well, we don’t have any reds in Kentucky.”
Some of the children laughed, and Sharon took me aside and told me a secret, making me cross my heart and hope to die. “I know who’s a red,” she told me in a whisper. “My father knows him.”
“Who?”
“One of the men your uncle rides with to work. The one who drives the car on Thursdays. He’s a red and I can prove it.”
Before I could find out more, it was my turn to pin the tail on the donkey. Sharon’s mother blindfolded me and spun me around. The children were squealing, and I could feel them shrinking from me. When I took the blindfold off, I was dizzy. I had pinned the donkey’s tail on the wallpaper, in the center of a large yellow flower.
That evening Betsy Lou went out with a boy named Sam, the one with the car, and Lunetta came to play canasta with the adults. During Cavalcade of Stars, I could hear them in the kitchen, accusing each other of hiding reds, when they meant hearts and diamonds. They laughed so loudly I sometimes missed some of Jack Carter’s jokes. The wrestling came on afterward, but my uncle did not notice, so I turned off the television and looked at a magazine. I spent a long time trying to write the last line to a Fab jingle so that I could win a television set and five hundred dollars a month for life. I knew that life in Kentucky would be unbearable without a television.
Between hands, Uncle Boone and Lunetta got into an argument. My uncle claimed there were more reds teaching school than making cars, and Lunetta said it was just the opposite.
“They’re firing schoolteachers too,” he said to Lunetta.
“Don’t look at me,” she said. “I signed the loyalty oath.”
“Hush your mouth, Boone,” said Aunt Mozelle.
“I know who a red is,” I said suddenly, coming to the table.
They all looked at me and I explained what Sharon had told me. Too late, I remembered my promise not to tell.
“Don’t let anybody hear you say that,” said Lunetta. “Your uncle would lose his job. If they even think you know somebody that knows somebody, you can get in trouble.”
“You better not say anything, hon,” said Uncle Boone.
“Peggy, it’s past your bedtime,” my mother said.
“What did I do?”
“Talk gets around,” said Lunetta. “There’s sympathizers even in the woodwork.”
The next day, after a disturbing night in which my guardian angel did nothing to protect me from my terrible secret, I was glum and cranky, and for the first time I refused Aunt Mozelle’s waffles.
“Are you burnt out on them?” she asked me.
“No, I just ain’t hungry.”
“She played too hard at the birthday party,” Mama said knowingly to my aunt.
When Lunetta arrived and Mama told her I had played too hard at the birthday party, I burst into tears.
“It’s nobody’s business if I played too hard,” I cried. “Besides,” I shrieked at Mama, “you don’t feel good at breakfast either. You always say you can’t keep anything down.”
“Don’t be ugly,” my mother said sharply. To the others, she said apologetically, “I reckon sooner or later she was bound to show out.”
It was Sunday, and the heat wave continued. We all sat on the porch, looking at the Sunday papers.