There were many times when the mood and atmosphere in our house resembled an undertaker's parlor. I call it morgue silence because to me everyone who is infected with it seems to be imitating the dead. I've been to funerals where people sit in the presence of the corpse and keep their eyes so still and empty, I imagined they have just deposited the shell of their bodies in the funeral hall for a while and then have one off to kill some time at some livelier place.
However, when the singing started, it was always like everyone had turned into Lazarus and risen from the grave. As a little girl. I was so impressed with the energy and the emotion some people exhibited at these wakes that I often wondered if they wouldn't revive the dead man or woman whose eyes would suddenly snap open and then sit up in the coffin and begin to join in the singing, Once, I imagined it so vividly. I thought it actually had happened. Mama saw me sitting there with my eyes so wide and full of amazement, it made her nervous. She insisted on taking me home because she thought the funeral was making me crazy.
"And she's crazy enough with her elective mutism," she told Daddy. She loved using that term ever since she had first heard Mrs. Waite use it at the parent-teacher conference.
Everyone was an elective mute in my home the morning after Mama's late night out. We had morgue silence. Mama didn't rise from her bed, but she wasn't asleep. I looked in and saw her staring up at the ceiling, her lips tightly drawn like a slash across her face. Daddy sipped his coffee and stared at the wall. I felt as if I had to tiptoe about the apartment, getting ready for school. He didn't say anything until I
was ready to leave.
"I've got a double shift today," he told me. "Training two new men. I won't be back until late, but don't fix me any dinner. I'll have enough to eat this time," he said, his voice trembling with anger and disgust. "She might put poison in my food anyway." he muttered glaring in Mama's direction. "Blaming everyone but herself for her unhappiness."
"I can make you something. Daddy."
"No, it's all right," he said. "I might be later than usual. Don't worry about me," he ordered. He was wound so tight this morning, I was already feeling sorry for anyone who crossed him at work.
I nodded and finished my breakfast without another word and left for school.
The moment I arrived. I sensed something different. I knew from the way other students (especially some of the girls in my class) looked at me: hid smiles behind their fmgers, spread like Japanese geisha-girl fans: or deposited whispers into each other's ears that I was once again the object of some ugly joke. Usually, having a thick skin came naturally to me. Whatever darts of ridicule they shot from their condescending eyes or spewed from their twisted, vicious lips bounced off the back of my neck and fell at their own feet like broken arrows. Most of the time, ignoring them as well as I did brought an end to their little games. They grew bored trying to get any sort of reaction from me, and when I looked at them with a blank stare, a face that could easily be lifted and used as a mask of in' difference at a Stoic's convention, they retreated and searched for a more satisfying target.
Today was different because I could feel their determination and their satisfaction, knowing with every passing minute-- from homeroom to my first class of the day-- despite my apparent disinterest. I was confused by it and couldn't help being curious. Was it something my mother had done? Or had said? Were they all just learning about my blind date and laughing at the results? What could possibly be the reason for all this whispering and laughing behind my back? It followed me from room to room like a string of empty cans tied to some poor dog's tail. The faster I walked, the louder the whispering and laughter became. When I sat in my classes. I merely had to turn slightly to the right or the left to see all eyes were on me, girls and boys mumbling over desks, making such a thick underlying flow of chatter that our teachers had to reprimand them a number of times and threaten to keep the whole class after school.
Their persistence began to make me nervous. but I was able to keep the lid on my emotions, walk with my eyes focused straight ahead, behaving as if there was no one else in the world. Finally, just before lunch. Thelma Williams and Carla Thompson stepped in front of me as I walked to the cafeteria. They wore identical wry smiles and with their books in their arms, their shoulders touching, presented themselves like a wall thrown up to block my way.
"What?" I demanded when they continued to just stand there, we were wondering if you and your boyfriend Balwin would like to come to a party at Carla's house this weekend?" Thelma asked in a phony sweet tone of voice.
"What?"
"We've never invited you to anything because you never showed any interest in boys before," Carla said.
"Some of the girls were worried you might be gay, you know. They don't like undressing in front of you in the locker room," Thelma emphasized.
I shook my head and started to go around them.
"How long have you been secretly seeing Balwin?" Carla asked as they stepped to the right to keep me blocked.
I stared at them. Balwin? Could Balwin have said something to someone about me? It seemed unlikely.
A small crowd began to gather behind them.
"What we were wondering is how does he make love with that big belly of his in the way," Thelma said. The others were starting to giggle. "I told Carla you would always have to be on top. right?"
"You're disgusting," I said.
"There's nothing wrong about being on top," Carla said. "As long as there's something to be on top of"
That brought a loud laugh. Some boys passing nearby stopped to listen.
"I've got to go to lunch," I muttered and stepped forward again, but they didn't part to make room for me.
"Well, are you coming to the party or not?" Thelma asked. "We'll have Carla's bed reinforced to handle the extra weight,"
She turned to the appreciative crowd and smiled before turning back to me.
I fixed my glare on her.
"You must be very sexually frustrated," I said. That drew a loud howl from the boys on the rim of the circle.
"Not so frustrated that I'd be going to Balwin Noble's house. You've got to find his thing with a tweezer."