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Porch Music

By Kathy Maresca

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Prologue Junior’s Dance Hall
Middleburg, Florida August 1952
Janie
Last time we came to Junior’s, one of those mean-talking Pinter boys got mad when Mama wouldn’t dance with him, so he up and called her a swamp Indian. It caused a ruckus that left one of his teeth smashed into the sheetrock of the dance hall. I had the front door open, one foot in and hoping to lead Mama out, when Daddy hauled me and my little brothers off the porch and made us wait for him in the car. I couldn’t see nary a thing from way out there. I felt every bit of it, though, how tore up Mama’s stormy Seminole heart was. She squalled all the way home and every night for two weeks. But early this evening, she started swaying and singing. She turned to me with a smile and her secret wink. “Are you ready to go dancing, Janie?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m good and ready.”
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My twelve-year-old knees bounce to “Broken Carted Mule.” Every time Junior’s band plays this song, I wonder all over again why the man needs a mule to find a wife, but I reckon it’s one of those things I’ll figure out when I get older. I stick my nose up to the float glass window, so I can watch Mama swirl across the scuffed oak floor. Saturday nights mean fancy dresses for the ladies, shined cotton and calicos. The men look so plain next to them, in their pistol-leg pants and short sleeve button-down shirts. Me, I’ve got on my green flour sack dress, and I use the hem of it to wipe away a little cloud of fog from the window pane.
“Wheel around!” calls out Old Man Tucker. Mama said she’d help me find a wife,
One who wouldn’t cause her no strife.
My papa gave me a mule and cart,
Handed me its reins and said be smart.
“Weave the ring,” Tucker yells out his next call. The dancers pick up the pace a little, and a bunch of old ladies sitting together in folding chairs and facing the floor, fan themselves. Old men stand in the corner, cigarette smoke puffing from their thin, wrinkly lips. Bare yellow light bulbs hang from ceiling cords. Whew, Junior’s is one ugly joint. Maybe when grown-ups are having fun, they don’t care about how things look.
With his guitar propped up against the colonial blue clapboard wall, Daddy sits with us on the porch of the dance hall. He watches while Kenny and Benny, who’ve been out of diapers near about a year, tussle from one spot to another. Every now and then, Daddy gives me a wink and warns me about drinking too much bellywash. That’s what he calls Coca-Cola. I tip my head far back, drink the last drop of the cold, sassy liquid, and set the bottle on the floor.
When Daddy stops by the store on the way to Junior’s, I like to reach in the cooler and test the icy water for the coldest spot. Then I pull out one bottle at a time until I find a Coke that looks and feels just right. Bellywash

is good anytime, but it’s extra good during dog days. Mama starts talking in June about hating August because that’s when dog days are here. Used to, I’d wait all summer, thinking we’re fixing to get a puppy, but I haven’t seen one yet. Shoot, I’d settle for a full-grown mutt.
Somebody help me stop that mule.
My young heart’s acting like a fool.
I found the prettiest gal in town,
But she has gone and turned me down.
To keep my mind off the sweat rolling down my neck, I peel a little paint
from the outside walls. I sure wish some cans of Sherwin-Williams would sneak off a store shelf, roll over here, pop their shiny lids, and splatter fresh color on this place. A few of the boards along the front of the building sag like they are tired out from holding up a bunch of people. Like it’s saying amen to the shack it’s attached to, the screen in the door bulges out near the bottom of its wood frame. I’ve never been inside of Junior’s, except for the toe of my left shoe, but I bet I’d forget about how bad things look if I could go in and dance. There’s no use thinking about it, though, because I know Mama and Daddy would tear up my behind good and proper if I tried such a thing.
Mama was supposed to be dancing with her younger brother, Percy, tonight, but he showed up drunk, staggering around like somebody who’s twirled around and around until he can’t stand up. When the fiddlers got started, the music knocked the dizziness right out of him, and he straightened right up. Uncle Percy’s been grabbing a new girl for each dance, leaving Mama to find a partner every time the song changes.
Seems like I ask Daddy the same thing one Saturday night after the other, but maybe I’ll get a different answer this time. “Daddy, why don’t you go inside and dance with Mama?” Like always, Daddy tells me that he’d rather be picking than dancing. He’s real patient, knowing his chance to play the guitar will come before closing time.
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When the music rests a couple of beats, the buzz of hungry mosquitos and the croaks of tree frogs sound a little bit like a harmony. I catch a whiff of the cornfields behind Junior’s, sticky, earthy, and sweet.
“Forward up and back!” Tucker shouts louder than the music. The ladies take three steps toward their partners, curtsey, and then take three steps back.
Weren’t too long till I found another girl.
How she made my young heart jump ’n whirl.
Well now she took off with my mule and cart.
Now all I got’s nothing but a broken heart.
Benny starts whimpering, so I pick him up to watch Mama with me.
She’s coming from the far end of the long, narrow floor, her yellow flowered dress fluttering up like butterflies circling her knees. Her hair falls from the silver comb on the back of her head.
Uncle Percy, who left the dance floor and joined the band up on the stage, sweats like a rainstorm. His shirttail hangs out, and his thick black hair falls onto his forehead. Maybe he forgot his pomade. Uncle Percy has charmed a whole bunch of the ladies this evening, including Old Man Tucker’s new young wife, Luella. Every time the band sings “made my young heart jump and whirl,” Percy shakes his hips a little. Short but quick Luella, who sings terrible but hasn’t figured that out yet, moves closer and closer to my uncle. She leans toward him, looks deep into his eyes, and kicks her right leg back when Uncle Percy does his rooster strut. Every time my uncle wiggles his tail feathers, I picture him hollering “cock-a-doodle-do.”
“Promenade home! Partners to your places, like the horses to their traces,” yells out Tucker. Mama and the others dance back to where they got started at the beginning of “Broken Carted Mule.” My mother’s chin quivers and her chest rises and falls. She’s sporting a smile that makes her look happier than I’ve ever seen her.
Kenny plants his palms on Daddy’s thigh, bounces up and down, and

moves his head with the beat of the music. I hold Benny up even closer to the window and try to rub away his dirt necklace. Kissing the back of his sticky neck, I give him a chance to see the happiness on Mama’s face. I crisscross my arms over his chest and squeeze him tight. He lets out a little yelp and pats my arm with his tiny hand a few times, like he’s making his own music. Hope hugs my heart.

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