One Mississippi (21 page)

“Carol Nason,” snapped Mrs. Passworth, “is that all there is to your costume?”

Carol cringed. “Yes ma’am.”

“You’re sure there’s not some other part to it?”

“Yes ma’am, I’m sure. This is everything Miz Duchamp gave me to wear.” Carol looked as if she might either cry or take five bucks for a quick sex act in the back of a car.

“Well go put on something else,” said Passworth. “I’m quite sure Mrs. Duchamp didn’t intend for you to look like that. Even if she did, you need more clothes.”

“I know,” Carol said. “I don’t think I can . . . I don’t think I should . . .”

“You can’t, and you shouldn’t. What else do you have to wear?”

“Just the T-shirt I wore on the bus. My clothes are back at the motel.”

“Go put on the T-shirt. That’ll help.” Passworth glanced to the doorway, where the men were nudging each other aside for a glimpse of Carol. “Ted, close those doors!”

Ted Herring ran to obey.

“Doesn’t everybody look fabulous!” Eddie cried. “Never seen a slicker bunch of performers. You all look very professional!”

“Especially Carol,” said Brad Hutchinson to a loud hawhaw from the boys.

“I can’t put it into words,” Eddie said, “but you look incredible! Alicia, your mother is some kind of genius!”

Alicia was one of our real beauties, a juicy ripe pear of a girl. For her star turn as Mary, her mother had dressed her as a Glamour Virgin, a white satin evening gown with plunging neckline, like one of those soft-focus movie star girls of the Thirties.

And here came Carol with the ripped hem of her skirt hanging down underneath her Go Titans T-shirt. She still had on the wild hair and makeup, the stockings and high heels. Now she looked like a Whore Barbie who’s been in an accident and someone has loaned her a T-shirt to get home. That’s what I whispered to Tim.

It had been a while since I’d cracked him up. The sound of his laughter made me feel fizzy inside, as if the night suddenly held fresh possibilities.

“Okay folks,” Eddie cried, “I just want to give my very special thanks to each and every one of you wonderful kids for being here at the birth of a dream. You’re gonna be amazing. The show will be a smash!”

Everybody clapped and said yeah Eddie, woo-hoo! Eddie displayed his desires so nakedly, so proudly. How could you not cheer for him?

Mickey and Ben strapped on their guitars. I sat on a three-legged stool and placed my feet on the pedals of the pump organ. I pumped a few times . . . the high G came out a tremulous wheeze.

Mickey made a face. “That sounds awful.”

“Like Grandmaw’s emphysema,” said Ben.

“It’s wild,” Mickey said. “Go ahead, play a couple of chords. Listen to this, Byron.”

I laid into pumping the pedals. I got the air flowing, and played the syncopated opening chords of the
Christ!
theme song.

I stopped. “What do you think?”

Byron laughed. “It’s bizarre. Sounds like ‘96 Tears.’”

“Combo? You guys set?”

“Right on, Eddie! Ready when you are.”

“Okay! Places, everyone!”

The double doors squealed and swelled inward to the river of talking, laughing men. Some flowed upstairs to throng the galleries, jamming into every inch of space, the air warmly heavy with their breathing.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Eddie bellowed. “Full Flower Baptist Church is delighted to bring you the world premiere of an original musical based on the life of our Savior. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you . . .
Christ!
”

He aimed an imaginary pistol at the Combo and fired. And they’re off!

The first number was the finger-snappin’, toe-tappin’ title song. From my place at the organ I saw just a small slice of the audience, but those faces were mesmerized.

If you’re feeling sad and blue

Who’s got real good news for you?

Who died on the cross for you?

Christ!

La la la laaaaaaa!

The song ended with the boys on one knee, arms spread wide à la Al Jolson, while the girls grinned and twirled their streamer-batons. Byron struck the final cymbal crash.

The answering silence was not long — no more than three seconds, according to Tim — then an explosion of indignation, surprise, outrage, applause.

Some men stormed for the doors. Some of them really liked us, clapping, shouting “Bravo!” Mostly they thought we were hilarious. They roared. They bent over laughing. They slapped each other’s backs, wiped tears from their eyes, broke up again reliving their favorite moments.

Eddie had an all-hope-abandoned look in his eyes. You could see him trying to interpret this uproar as good news, but then why were some people shaking fists at him? Those guys laughing so hard they held on to each other? What was so funny?

I glanced at the cue sheet. Sixteen songs to go! The pedals grew heavy under my feet. What made me think this would be fun?

Tim murmured, “Let’s get out of here.”

I blinked. “What?”

“I can’t watch this, Skippy. It makes my stomach hurt.”

“We can’t run away now.”

“Why not?”

I spread my hands, indicating the other guys. “We’re part of this. We’re the Combo. The Combo is us.”

“No no no,” he said. “This is pathetic.”

“And hilarious,” I said. “Isn’t it? Just like we hoped it would be.”

Eddie waved for us to strike up the next song.

“Hey Mary, guess what?”
sang Ted Herring.

You’re gonna have a bay-beh!

Yeah, ready or not —

I know you don’t believe it!

A commotion arose on the far side of the room — shoving chairs, heated voices. The song limped to a stop.

Reverend R. T. Frederick put his hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “I just want to say I am terribly embarrassed,” he said, “that some of my brothers will not show you young people the same courtesy we would extend to the least among us.”

“That’s okay! Really!” said Eddie. “We just want to do our show.”

A man called, “But these children are blaspheming! You cannot allow this to go on!”

Reverend Frederick patted Eddie’s shoulder. “Your presentation is not quite what we were expecting,” he said. “We’re accustomed to more traditional representations.”

“Wait, you’re gonna love the next one,” said Eddie, waving madly for us to start.

Byron kicked off a bass beat. Here came Alicia Duchamp sashaying out in her Glamour Virgin gown, belting “Joseph, You’ve Got to Believe Me.”

Alicia’s brassy voice went nicely with her pear-shaped bottom. She pranced around on high heels, giving saucy little kicks that quickly distracted the Bible students.

The laughter began to dissipate. I saw appreciation setting in on some of the faces, or maybe something else. Alicia did look fine in that gown. The number ended in a spotlight, on a high note, her head thrown back at a rakish angle — a big round of cheers.

Could this musical be saved?

We jumped into the quick tempo of “Third Manger on the Right,” the whole cast onstage, singing and dancing a farcical reenactment of Joseph and Mary’s search for a room in Bethlehem. The slapstick and the animal costumes got some nice laughs. I thought I saw Reverend Frederick beginning to relax.

The men who hated us the most had already left. Those who had stayed were either laughing at us or laughing with us, and what difference did it make? They were laughing. The room felt warm through the first act, even warmer in the second. By the time Matt Smith sang “Can I Really Be the Son of God?” it was hot in there, and the audience was on Matt’s side.

The stage filled with lepers humming “The Leper’s Song,” every bit as gloomy as it sounds. I saw Carol Nason at the side of the stage, fiddling with the hem of her Go Titans T-shirt. She looked around to see if anyone was watching, then peeled the T-shirt up over her head and smoothed the skirt of her whore dress.

When the lepers scampered off to dutiful applause, Carol ran on. The spotlight found her. Every man in the room sucked in air.

The Combo played the opening bars,
Duh duh-duh DUM da-DUM!

“Hello boys!” Carol cried.

Duh duh-duh DUM da-DUM!

“I’m Mary Magdalene — and I’m bad!”

Eddie gaped. That line was not in the script.

Dum duh-duh DUM da-DUM!

Carol strutted down the edge of the stage, dipping coyly, cutting eyes at the men gawking up at her. “Hey fella, whatcha up to tonight? Good to see ya! Hey, handsome!”

Tim said, “What is she doing?”

“I do believe she’s stripping.”

“Unbelievable. Look at her!”

“She hasn’t taken anything off yet, but she sure looks naked.”

Reverend Frederick sputtered into Eddie’s ear, but Eddie was too busy adoring Carol’s performance. His eyes flashed up at her, worshiping her. He’d been trying to get her to sing out since the first rehearsal — and boy was she ever singing out, catwalking all over the stage in her wanton, dressed-but-naked condition.

Not that kind of girl, no!

I’m just clay in God’s hands to play with

Not that kind of girl, no!

I’ve only got two hands to pray with

She was appalling and sexy — a living example of everything the Bible says Thou Shalt Not. The men cheered and wolf-whistled.

Suddenly there was Reverend R. T. Frederick onstage behind her, brandishing a choir robe. He swept her up in it and ushered her off as the students hooted for an encore.

“Let her go! She’s not done!” cried a man in front.

“Oh yes she is. Show’s over, my friends,” he bellowed.

By the time we got through the mob to that side of the room, Passworth was shouting at Reverend Frederick. “I don’t care how offended you are, we’re not going anywhere until our bus comes to get us! You invited us up here to perform and that’s what we were doing!”

“Perhaps you could explain to me,” he thundered, “how anyone who calls herself a decent Christian could associate herself with that kind of blatant obscenity!”

Mrs. Passworth put her finger in his face. “Listen, buster, don’t tell me what kind of a Christian I am. These children came up here to present their own version of the greatest story ever told. They were singing their hearts out for you. If you’re that narrow-minded, well then, it’s your loss!”

“Madam,” he huffed, “I happen to know the difference between a young lady and a harlot!”

“Mary Magdalene
was
a harlot, you idiot!” she cried. “Read your Bible! It’s in there! What kind of a Bible college is this?”

Reverend Frederick ran everyone out of the building, locked the doors, got in his car, and drove off without another word.

A few Bible students were still hanging around outside, with flashlights. They offered to walk us to town.

“Why thank you,” said Passworth. “At least there are some gentlemen.”

“I thought you all did great,” one man offered.

“Yeah, y’all done real good. Too bad some people couldn’t appreciate it.”

Others chimed in yeah, they liked us too.

“Specially her. What is your name, girl?”

“That’s Carol,” said Ted Herring. “Isn’t she amazing? Carol — you were great.”

Carol looked even sexier swaddled in her silky purple choir robe. “Thank you, Ted. I guess some people just can’t handle realism.”

Passworth said, “I told you to cover up that costume, Carol Ann.”

“Yes ma’am. But the T-shirt just looked so silly, you know?”

I felt proud of Passworth, sticking up for us so loudly. That went a long way toward making up for the fact that we were out on the highway again, in the dark, walking back to Itta Bena.

Eddie sagged along at the end of the group, as if most of his helium had been let out. He said he thought the show was playing very well when they stopped it, who knows with a nip here and a tuck there . . . his voice trailed off and he said nothing more.

Walking back didn’t feel as long as walking out there, since we knew how far it would be. Chorus members talked in low voices. I followed the skittering flashlight beams.

We topped a rise to a glad sight, the homey yellow lights of the Leflore Motor Court. Parked in front, idling, waiting for us, was a glowing Greyhound bus, lit up cool blue from inside.

Mrs. Passworth said, “I got half a mind to just put us on that thing and go home right this minute.”

We groaned. For us, spending the night was the whole point of the trip.

“Oh, I suppose you poor children are exhausted. All right. Go to your rooms now, and shut out the lights. I don’t want any trouble, you hear? And listen — y’all did great tonight. Never mind that old man. You made me proud. Give yourselves a nice round of applause.”

We clapped politely, but it was not like having other people clap for you.

“Good night, all. Eddie, get some sleep.” She slipped into her room and shut the door.

We all watched Eddie fumbling his key in the lock. Finally he got the door open and fell into his room. He slammed the door shut with the key dangling from the outside of the lock.

We watched and waited until he opened the door, snatched the key from the lock, slammed it shut again.

Everyone filtered off to their rooms. Some of the boys wanted to play cards, and there was a rumor that some girls had a bottle of wine.

“Poor Eddie,” I said.

Tim sniffed. “Yeah. So what.”

The fluorescent light gave our room a ghastly flickering pallor. I turned on the TV — a swimmy black-and-white picture. Miss Kitty’s image rippled like gasoline fumes on a hot day.

“Oh please,
Gunsmoke
?” said Tim. “The most boring show in history. What else is on?”

“That’s it. One channel. Flip around if you don’t believe me.” I threw myself across my bed. The mattress had no bounce. “Mm, nice bed.”

“You can watch this crap if you want, Skippy. I’m going to sleep.” He kicked his shoes off, pulled the covers halfway up his face, and closed his eyes.

“Wait — that’s it? You’re just going to sleep?”

One eye opened. “Yes.”

“You don’t need to pee, or anything?”

“No.” He snuggled into his blanket.

“Shouldn’t you at least brush your teeth?”