WHEN I WAKE UP AND SEE THE FROST ON my window, I thank heaven for the favor. A cold day means I can wear my woolen coat without a question from the reverend. It’s the perfect cover-up for the Sunday dress I’ve got on underneath.
I’ve hot-combed my hair and slicked it with NuNile. With the wind blowing the way it is, I wear my plaid kerchief. The kerchief surely won’t give me away, and it’ll keep my hair in place.
If the reverend bothers to look at my legs, he’ll know something’s different about me. I’m wearing a pair of stockings from Roberta Wilkins.
I have never wanted a Saturday like I want this one. Today Smooth Teddy Wilson, one of the swingingest piano players and bandleaders in all of New York, is holding auditions for a lead singer. As the reverend would say, the Lord has blessed me with a divine co-incidence. Smooth Teddy Wilson’s tryouts are at the fairgrounds, in the central pavilion, just across from the relief truck, which comes to the grounds every Saturday at dawn.
As good timing would have it, I go to the relief truck every Saturday, anyhow, to gather food rations for parishioners who are too old or too sickly to stand in line. So, to the reverend, today is no different from any other.
But this morning I have a plan. I will gather up my food rations quickly, then head over to the pavilion to show Smooth Teddy Wilson that Hibernia Lee Tyson means business.
The reverend’s got his nose stuck in his newspaper.
“I’ll be back before noon,” I say, pulling at the tails of my kerchief that hang under my chin.
The reverend doesn’t even look up. “Get some scrapple,” is all he says, and I’m out the door. Like always, I bring my wagon so I can carry home a new hunk of government cheese and a fresh block of Oleander butter.
Today my wagon seems heavier somehow. Even empty, it’s harder to pull. It could be the frost crunching beneath its wheels that slows it down. Or it could be the wind, or the clouds that have turned the sky to dirty mop water.
Or maybe it’s my conscience that’s heavy. Telling the reverend a half-truth is like carrying a sack of sand.
The food lines here in Elmira snake from the relief truck’s tailgate to the edge of the fairgrounds. Today I’m one of the first in line. The only folks ahead of me are those who sleep on the grass the night before the truck pulls onto the muddy patch where it parks.
When I get to the truck, I’m behind a mother and little boy and two toothless hobos. After me, the line grows and grows as people gather.
Mr. Haskell, who drives the truck and rations the food, is always glad to see me. Today his truck hatch is already open when I walk up. Mr. Haskell is sitting on top of a cheese crate. There are barrels and boxes all around him. He smiles big at the sight of me. “Well, look at you, Hibernia Lee Tyson.” He notices my stockings. I don’t give the stockings any attention. I just act natural.
He loads my wagon with three crates of cheese, two tins of Oleander butter, and enough scrapple to feed all of True Vine for seven Sundays. Then he adds four cans of condensed milk and a burlap bag of Liberty sugar. “Here’s something extra for the sweetest girl in town,” he says, securing the sugar between the crates of cheese.
I do my best to be grateful, but I’m cursing the extra stuff that’s weighing me down. When I move off the line, my wagon will hardly budge. I tug at it with all my muster. I get the wagon to turn its wheels, but it’s slow going.
The central pavilion is up ahead. There’s a line of people winding off the front, a line double to what is trailing the food truck. Even from far away, I can see that it’s mostly women waiting to meet Smooth Teddy Wilson.
If it weren’t for my wagon, I’d be in that line quick. But it’s taking me three forevers to get to the pavilion. It doesn’t matter that there’s frost under my feet. I’m panting like a dog in the desert.
I’m not even halfway there when icy raindrops land on my knuckles. I try to pick up the pace, but the crates and butter and burlap hold me back. The raindrops call all their friends and soon it’s a downpour.
My hopes droop faster than Roberta’s stockings. I’m soaked before I can think on what to do.
The reverend has said that all true prayer is asking. But my thoughts are so jumbled, I don’t even know the right questions. I start chewing at my thumbnail.
Should I leave the wagon behind? Or should I forget my dream and go home?
My kerchief comes loose. The NuNile in my hair starts to drip. The rain even finds its way into my pockets. My poop-colored shoes are one with the mud that is turning them a whole new shade of brown.
At the pavilion I see a parade of umbrellas. If I can just get to the line, maybe someone will share. I turn my back to where I’m going and pull the wagon hard with both hands.
My wagon’s gone stubborn on me. It’s stuck. The mud’s got us glued to the center of the fairgrounds at the wide-open place between Mr. Haskell’s food truck and Smooth Teddy Wilson’s tryouts.
I am no crybaby, but right now all I can do is cry. My tears don’t even seem to wet my face, which is dripping with rain. My kerchief has become a limp collar around my neck. The stockings are a puddle all their own. I bite off two fingernails at the same time.
I’m drenched from my bangs to my toe jam. I’m crying so much, my shoulders shake. I sniff hard to keep from bawling, but a loud uhhhrrroooeee! howls from someplace in me that’s cracking open. Before I can stop it, one uhhhrrroooeee follows another—fast, then faster. Uhhhrrroooeee! Uhhhrrroooeee! Uhhhrrrooooooooooeeeeee!
The only dry patch on me now is my sheet music, pinned to the lining of my coat.
When I finally make it home, I slink quietly in the back door. The reverend calls from the parlor, “Bernie, is that you?”
I manage to call back the one thing I know will keep the reverend in the other room. “I got the scrapple.”