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Cicada Wind |
by Trace Sheridan
Ms. Margaret had lined us up according to our height and the color of our cotton dresses. She smiled with satisfaction as we stood with our heads high, shoulders back, stomachs in and eyes demurely cast down.
I glanced to my left and then cut my eyes to the right at the girls on either side of me. Not only did they look prettier than an uncut sweet potato pie, they looked as if they were enjoying being trained to put themselves on display like one of those fancy cakes in the county fair baking contest. One by one she had us walk to the center of the room, pivot, and return to our spot in line. Periodically, she would bark out some order to the girl, "Straighten up, Sophie! Imagine there's a string on top of your head pulling up."
Why we did this was beyond me. Maybe she liked the sound our shoes made, tiny taps on hard wood floors, as we paraded back and forth across her sitting room—maybe she just felt sorry for us.
I couldn't tell how old Ms. Margaret was and for the life of me, didn't remember her last name. She was a plump little lady, shorter than all but one of us. I knew she was older than my mother, but after that I had no idea of how old; her face was smooth and lineless. And when she smiled her eyes sparkled, transforming her; she was well, beautiful.
And she was the kind of beautiful that made you look at her again just to make sure you didn't miss something the first time. Somebody said she used to be a beauty queen, in her day. Mama commented how nice it was that she worked with the neighborhood girls—folks paid good money, apparently, for what she was doing with us for free.
"Well, don't you all look nice," she said her voice dripping with charm. "This is a wonderful way to practice good posture." She clasped her hands together as if she were happier than big Ben Phillips waiting for the ice cream van. She waved her arm toward us and made a bow.
"You'll be ready for the graduation in no time. Again, one at a time, walk."
But Ms. Margaret's idea of preparing us for the fall induction at St. Thomas Aquinas School for Girls felt more like being prepared to go before the firing squad. I've been known to exaggerate from time to time, not this time. I wanted to bolt; if I hurried I could still go swimming. It took every single ounce of strength I had not to run out of there.
The torture I'd already endured before arriving for this line up went beyond the normal primping for a special occasion. No part of me— from the top of my head to the bottom of my feet—had been spared. I'd been scrubbed and brushed, dried and sprayed, and sprinkled with a layer of talcum powder like a Christmas sugar cookie.
My hair had been brushed until every single strand was pulled flat and arranged into a tight knot on top of my head. Nearly a thousand bobby pins were used to make this bun stay put and I could feel every single one of them pricking my scalp. No plain bangs would do for today's special occasion; my school girl bangs had been hot curled into hundreds of tiny ringlets framing my face.
Despite my efforts to assure Ms. Margaret that the holes in my ears did not work and had closed from lack of use, since I hadn't wore earrings in over a year, she insisted they only needed to be re-opened. What she failed to mention was reopening them entailed her barbarically re-piercing my ears with the nickel-free surgical steel posted fresh water pearl ear rings she insisted we wear. (She gave each girl a pair as a token—of what she never said).
Had I known the ordeal would continue past getting ready, I might have pretended to be sick before reaching Ms. Margaret's house. Not that my mother let this prevent me from showing up. She was determined to root out all semblances of my former self and dedicated to reforming my tom boyish ways.
In mama's opinion, Ms. Margaret's little program was a kind of reform school for boyish girls—girls who preferred skipping rocks across Miller pond or sticking dried discarded cicada skins on their unsuspecting little sisters. She was certain after Ms. Margaret was finished with me, I would emerge—transformed—a proper young lady.
***
Papa and I had been fishing for about an hour. The sun was beginning to peek through the curtain of pines encircling Miller's pond. We left the house around four that morning. We were sitting in a pair of aluminum patio chairs that sank down into the red mud under our feet.
"Mama tells me you've been giving your sister a hard time."
His voice seemed to flow in tempo with the slow clicking turn of his reel. My father had the kind of voice that would make you stop and listen; it wasn't that it was loud or threatening—there was a rich fullness to it—something about the calm in his voice made me fall silent. What could I say in response to all that quiet?
He continued, "She tells me you've been sticking cicada skins on your sister." He didn't ask if this was true or not. There was no need to deny it. No need to defend myself or attempt to wiggle out of it with a 'reason why'. And the thought of telling him a lie didn't occur to me. Lying was not an option, since I was convinced he knew everything I'd say before I said it and what he didn't know, he could look at me and discern.
"Listen, Evy, I want to tell you something." He kept his eyes on the smooth black waters, focusing on the flat surface, scanning for the slightest movement. I was thankful for this, any moment I thought I might start crying.
I knew it was coming. I had terrorized Cecily unmercifully, laughing as she burst into tears and ran around the yard screaming, "Get it off! Get it off!" I expected mama to chastise me or put me on punishment; instead she shook her head and looked at me with shock, without a word.
"You know there are thousands of varieties of cicadas all over the world," he said. "They all molt."
"Molt?"
"They shed their skins. That's what you're finding, they blow through the wind, land on the trees and shrubs around the house."
"Why do they do that?"
"Well they reach a certain point in their development and they no longer fit their in their skin."
"Does it kill them?"
"No," he said, "they don't die. It's a natural part of their life cycle, changing, shedding their skin, replacing the old one with a new one that fits them. Sort of like when you grow out of a pair of shoes." He glanced down at my converse. I had cut the back heel out of them and wore them like flip flops. I tucked my feet underneath my lawn chair.
"Does it hurt them?"
"Suppose, it's possible. They live underground the first part of their lives. Then, when they when they're old enough, they dig a tunnel and climb to the surface. Up to this point, they've been under ground and only needed legs for digging. But when they get to the surface, they shed that old skin and reveal the wings they've been growing beneath that tough shell all the while."
I stared at the waters. "But why do they need to come to the surface and shed their skins? Couldn't they just live underground?"
"Well, cicadas are big bugs. All sorts of birds and rodents like to eat them. Without those wings they wouldn't survive. And besides that cicadas are meant to sing." He gave his line a gentle tug with a flick of his wrist. "Changing is a natural part of life, Evy. Every living thing must change to survive."
I thought about what he said for a long time, the rest of the morning as he pulled fish after fish from the dark cool waters.
***
Mama was tired of buying me tough skins but I'd ripped all my other pants and she had no choice. I continued to hold on to the cut-up converse sneakers. She humored me, I guessed afterward because of the accident. They were the only shoes I'd keep on my feet.
"Evangeline," (she called me this when she was being stern) "Evangeline," she said to me, "you're almost eleven years old and it's time you stopped gallivanting across Gregg County like you have no home training and live outdoors."
Was that what I'd been doing? If that's what you called it, then gallivanting was a lot of fun. "But Mama," I replied, "what's wrong with having fun? I ain't hurting no one being outside."
"Evangeline, what have I told you about talking like that? You aren't hurting any one being outside."
"Exactly, my point mother."
"Oh Evy," she said, this she said more gently, "I know. But it's time for you to be a little more civilized. From now on, you're Evangeline. We talked about this remember? After papa—"
"Dag nab it! Evangeline? I hate that name!" I interrupted, she approached the unspeakable subject. I couldn't stand to hear her or anyone speak of him, even though it was the second summer since he passed away.
"Evangeline Lillian Cooper! Now, stop it. I want you on your best behavior with Ms. Margaret and the other girls. None of that talk!"
"Shoot! Yes ma'am."
"I mean it," my mother said, tilting her head ever so slightly so I knew was serious. "No bad reports. Do you understand?"
Enter Ms. Margaret, the master at civilizing the wild child, the tom boy, and the constantly clumsy. I fidgeted, shifting my weight from one foot to the next.
"Evangeline!" Ms. Margaret admonished me, "Stop wiggling."
"Yes, ma'am," I replied, trying to sound sincere.
"Ladies," she said, fanning her arm in a delicate swoop toward the table behind her, "soon we'll sit for tea."
We released a collective "ah" as we gazed at the food. It was past lunch and after three hours of standing I couldn't tell if the stomach I heard growling was mine or the girl's next to me. An enormous round table sat at the end of the room and was laid out with most splendid sweets I'd ever seen. My eyes grew wide as I beheld dainty sandwiches in cookie cutter shapes, delicate pink and chocolate petit fours, and fluffy miniature cakes with frosting the colors of pastel rainbows.
"But now, we continue to walk. Remember, heads high," Ms. Margaret said. We turned from the table, continuing our endless walk across the room.
The freshly laundered cotton slip under my dress, with its frilly hem was making me itch and the white opaque tights I had on fit snugger than a wet suit. If that wasn't enough, Ms. Margaret had inadvertently given me the size five patent leather shoes rather than the size sixes. From the top of my carefully coiffed head to the bottom of my tightly fitted feet, I was in pain.
In the cool of Ms. Margaret's air conditioned sitting room papa's words from the year before came back to me, clear as if he'd been sitting in the Queen Anne chair next to that spread of desserts: "Every living thing must change to survive." The summer I turned eleven I understood my father's words. Change was inevitable—a necessary wound inflicted by life, by choice and by force, by those we love and by those we didn't—and this...this was only the beginning of my pain.
Tracey Sheridan is an editor of 34thParallel, a quarterly print magazine that publishes prose, poetry, photography, and interviews. Her stories and poetry have been published online and in print in the US and UK in literary magazines such as Libbon, Mudluscious, Nerve House, Static Movement, 55 Words, blueprintreview, All Things Girl to name a few. An excerpt from her book, "My Story Begins with..." is being published by University of Texas Press; her poetry has been published in Scream, an anthology published by EditRed Publishing.
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