Chapter 22
On the day of the party, I wake up and scoot down to the kitchen. Willy May isn’t here, but a newspaper is open on the kitchen table. It is a fat one, called The Memphis Commercial Appeal, and above a alert that Mrs. Jones’s bridge club is postponed, I read:
The people must be something, to put it in the newspaper like that. I fix me a leftover biscuit with some butter we keep soft on the counter. I am reading the funny papers when Lucille comes in. She says, It’s showtime, Meg.
Yesterday, she made me rehearse until the words stopped making sense: Mrs. Georgia Tann, the Tennessee Children’s Home Society, Memphis, Tennessee.
I said it and said it until I was damn blue in the face.
And then last night after some liquor drinks, she pulled me aside and said if I don’t say it, she will snatch me bald-headed and drive me right straight back to the orphanage without telling Tom.
Well that one took me by such surprise, I had to go lie down a minute. Tom is the best part of my day. I am learning a thing or two about Lucille after she has had a few of those liquor drinks.
Upstairs, I see the pink Shirley Temple dress laying out on my bed.
With all I have ate this week, I am apt to split the thing in two.
She helps me pull it over my head and step into a three-layer petticoat that goes underneath.
That petticoat makes it a even tighter squeeze.
Also it is itching all up my legs and it is too short and I can’t breathe good—
What is this material even called? Because it does not stretch a bit.
Taffeta. She says it flat like that. Then she brushes my hair and puts a prissy pink bow in back I also hate. She says, If it’s any consolation, the dress I’m wearing makes me look like a suffragette from 1910.
I don’t know what that is, but I hope it is itchy.
I give it one last try. Are you sure, Lucille? The bluebird dress fits me really good.
I’m sure it does, she says. But we need you to look young.
How young? Lord knows, I am already small for eleven.
Try for infantile.
After I pull on stockings and buckle the white shoes, I find Tom standing around in the front sitting room. He has got on a dark suit and a tie. He tells me, You look very nice, Meg. Don’t be nervous. Way he is gripping the back of the chair, I think he is the one with nerves.
I do my best not to sulk.
Sure enough, Lucille’s dress looks like something Miss Garnett would’ve wore. It is a paste-colored number with zero sparkle to it. Pearls are clipped onto her ears instead of the usual razzle-dazzle, and she has just a dab of red lipstick on. She looks flat-out disgusted by herself.
Tom, though, practically melts all over when he sees her. His shoulders, his hands, even his eyeballs relax. You look perfect, darling, he tells her.
Lucille sighs and says, I know.
We load up in the car and Tom drives us up the lane with the trees bowing over like we are royal somethings.
He turns the wooden wheel and we pass a field and a old falling-down shack.
Then he turns again and soon I see a big white house ahead.
This one is a lot larger and wider in size than ours and is more rectangular, with porches hanging off the top and the bottom.
Parked all over the grass are black motorcars, along with some mule wagons and a couple horse-and-carriages with colored men leaning on them.
It reminds me of a old postcard I saw of one of those big houses from before the Civil War.
I start to get a case of nerves. This looks like more people than even the last View Day.
Tom parks the car under a shade tree. Beside him Lucille opens a compact but frowns and closes it quick.
We get out, and the three of us begin our trudge toward the house.
They both walk slow like we are headed to a funeral.
I have never been to one myself, but I have heard.
If one of us was singing “Oh Peter Go Ring Dem Bells,” it would not feel odd.
Up the big front steps we go, and I see on the side of the house is a sign that says Cottonwood Plantation, 1845.
Tom takes a deep breath and pushes the heavy front door open.
It is like a slap in the face! Noisy noise and people’s bodies, a man’s striped fat belly straight in my nose.
For a second none of us can hardly move.
I myself have not been to a lot of parties before or ever.
I crane on tiptoes to see around the people.
Best I can tell is we are in a wide, long hall.
Rooms off to the left and right hold more people than furniture to sit on.
All the lights are burning bright, even with it sunny outside.
Another lady bumps me and I got to hop out the way so I can stay behind Tom.
I would hold his hand if I knew the man a little better.
Since I have to look up to see everybody, mostly all I see is a good amount of chins.
Folks clap Tom on the shoulder and tell him, Mighty good to have you back, Tom, and I know your mama’s happy to have you back at Cottonwood.
Tom just nods and moves us to a part of the wide hall where we can breathe.
Over my head, I hear, PARIS! Paris costs a fortune!
Lucille has let Tom hold her hand without swatting it off.
They both look like they might be sick. I just want to get this hot, squeezing pink thing off my body.
I spot Willy May, not in her regular white uniform but a fancy gray one, holding a silver tray of something.
Lord, that frilly thing on her head looks itchy too.
Fact, I see four or five colored people milling around with trays.
Tom does not like coloreds holding things for him, but these other white people don’t seem to mind it a bit.
Then I spot some kids! In a room off to the left, and sure enough they are girls and several look my age even, in fancy dresses with ribbons down their backs.
I want to get a closer look at them, but a big man is coming at us.
He is even taller than Tom, and older and gray-headed and a lot thicker all over. He moves slow like everything hurts. He beats on Tom’s back harder than could feel good. Theah you ah, we been looking fo you, Tom. He calls up to the air, Mama, come ovah heah and see oah son!
Like he is dreading the answer, Tom says, How was your trip, Daddy?
Ahduous. Angina stahted up somewheah in the Atlantic and I thought we’d nevah get back to Mahshall County. His voice is gravelly. He talks without any R’s. I move behind Tom’s leg and practice my words, but I am nerve all over in this tight baby dress.
Lucille moves up to the man and yells, Welcome home, Big Tom. It’s so good to see y’all made it back safely.
This Big Tom waves his hand in her face, like he is cleaning a dirty window. Wiping her words off like they might set a stain. Theah comes Mama. Come hug yoah son’s neck, Mama, he calls.
It is like the Red Sea parting. Here a woman comes with her arms held out stiff like the figures in the Nativity scene reaching for Baby Jesus.
She is heavy bottomed and shorter than anybody but me with wrinkles all over her face, but her hair is black as Willy May’s.
Black to where you wonder if they were dyed to match.
Tom says, Hello, Mama—
But she says, Where is she, is the baby here? She smiles and waggles her fingers at Tom.
Before he can talk, Lucille juts forward again. Welcome home, Isabelle, we’re so happy you arrived home safe—
The lady ignores her. Willy May said you brought in some help for the baby. Is she here now?
I do not like this baby talk at all.
Isabelle, we have a big surprise for you and Big Tom today, Lucille says. We’d like you to meet Margot. And she nudges me in the back, so I step forward. We call her Little Meg for short.
The short old woman looks at me and says, Hello, Meg, we’re happy to have your help. Now, Tom, where’s the baby? I’m confused, Willy May said—
No, I’m telling you we adopted Meg instead of a baby, Lucille says.
The lady finally looks Lucille in the face and says, You what.
Tom and I adopted Little Meg from the agency you sent us to up in Memphis.
Lucille’s voice is pitched higher than regular.
What happened was, when we went up there to pick out a baby like you said, we saw the poor selection they had— Lucille wrinkles her nose.
You wouldn’t believe how sickly those little things were.
So we told Mrs. Georgia Tann we’d prefer to wait until she has some healthier ones in and we were just about to leave when—she sets her hand on my shoulder—we saw Little Meg. And that was it.
What was it? the lady says.
Why, we just fell in love with her at first sight, and to prove it, Lucille reaches down and takes holt of my hand. Hers is soft and shaking a little. Because she’s just so special, isn’t that right, Little Meg?
Way Lucille is staring down at me with such adoring eyes, I feel dizzy. But I manage to get it out of me. Mrs. Georgia Tann, Tennessee Children’s Home Society, I blurt out.
The old man cups his ear and says, Whut? Whut’s she saying?
The old lady looks up at Tom. What in the name of heaven is going on here, Son?
Tom is sweating on his neck, but his face has gone white. When the lady sees she is not going to get anything out of him, she turns back to Lucille. I gave you three thousand—you had clear instructions to adopt a baby—
I know—I realize this all sounds highly unusual, Isabelle, but—
—not bring home a full-grown child!
—these were very, very special circumstances. Lucille squats down so she is looking straight at me. She tucks some hair behind my ear the way a real mama would, staring at me with those green eyes. If I was not smarter, this would be damn confusing.
The old lady Isabelle’s mouth is a wrinkled red knot. Around us, folks keep touching her arm to come visit, tell how much Paris costs. I am starting to get scared at what this all means.