Girlchild by Tupelo Hassman Page B

the end of the asphalt, just downwind from the cesspond that was going to be the Calle de las Flores swimming pool, a hole that was dug but never finished and has since taken on a life of its own.
    I always play pool on Revival nights at the table farthest from the dunk tank, farthest because the dunk tank is on the Adults Only side of the tent, because the dunk tank is where Mama always is, in the tank or in the drink, drying off at the bar, climbing back in. For this feat she earns a buck a dunk for the Lions Club White Picket Fence Fund or whatever it is they’re collecting for this time. More important than that, she earns the admiration of the Calle men and the envy of the Calle women. The promise of possibly dunking Mama, in her cut-offs and rosy-pink tank top, sells tickets. It’s that or her mouth, because Mama can’t seem to stop pushing her customers, “Bet you can’t,” and “Keep dreaming,” and all in a voice that the Girl Scouts would find anything but sportsmanlike.
    Mama brings the money in, and Mama will go down again and
again to applause and hoots from the Calle men. I choose shots to keep her behind me even if it costs me the game, but when I hear the softball hit its mark and feel the crowd take in its breath, the silent pulling suck before cheering, I turn around, because the sight of Mama underwater never stops being a surprise. Maybe she needs the crowd cheering so she can hear her way up to the air, maybe she needs the warmth of the fools who pool up around her, buy her drinks. She’ll sit on the bench without a care, even though there’s three feet of water underneath her, that her hair is wrecked, that her mascara has run, and in just seconds she’ll stand, the rose in the center of her tank top the only thing not made see-through by the wet. And her smile. If she likes who dunked her, she’ll flip him off sweetly, the red nail on her middle finger dripping bright as her voice that says, “Bet you can’t do it twice,” like she can’t wait to do it again, like water’s never scared her at all. The tent gets louder, she gets wet, dry, wet again.
    And this Revival night is special because, while the Kiwanis think it’s to celebrate the new tassels on their hats, the rest of us know this is Grandma’s moving away party and there’s free barbeque and all the Olympia you can drink. The spotlights bouncing off the kegs make everyone squint, but what’s hurting my eyes is seeing Mama and Grandma together, not passing by, not handing shifts off, handing me off, but together, and this makes the night so bright that my eyes start to water. Grandma is leaving the Calle, going back to California, because, she says, “There’s gold in them thar hills,” even though I don’t laugh anymore when she says it. What she really means is that she can’t fight the one-armed bandit anymore. If she wants to hold on to whatever she’s got left she’s going to have to get out of his reach, and what she really means is good-bye.
    The whole Calle’s brought presents for Grandma, a stack of cardboard boxes, brand-new rolls of packing tape, and more seed packets for her new garden than she’ll have room to plant, but
Grandma brought a present for me. She hands me a sheet of twenty-cent stamps and a stack of envelopes. “This is how we’re going to stay together,” she says, “until you get old enough to get out of here.” And I’m looking at my new sheet of stamps, white eagles ready to fly, when the music starts again and dancing feet kick pebbles pinging into the keg behind me. The music’s too loud and too fast, “On the Road Again,” and when I look up, it’s Mama. She’s dancing in bare feet, her toes are grey with dirt and her still-damp shirt is getting caked with dust. She grabs Grandma’s hands, kisses them both, and says, “Dance with your kid, old woman.” Mama’s words are all slurs, she’s slam-dunked for good, but even so, her feet and Grandma’s move in time, raising