“The word is, pneumonia, as in, ‘A bad cold can sometimes lead to pneumonia.‘ Pneumonia.“
Our principal Mr. Grant’s voice was a commanding baritone that seemed to make the walls of the combination auditorium-cafeteria-gymnasium vibrate as he bent a goose-necked microphone to his mouth and read from the list of words and illustrative sentences before him. He stood at a podium in what would be the orchestra pit, facing the stage on which twenty or so of us kids sat—all except me: I stood in front of my chair, listening to Mr. Grant, trying to keep calm under his booming voice. Above our heads a white banner was hung across the stage with black letters that read, “WELCOME TO THE 1964 FOSTER ELEMENTARY SCHOOL 6TH GRADE SPELLING BEE.”
Behind Mr. Grant sat the entire adult population of Allied Gardens—or so it seemed—here to witness this historic event, fidgeting in row after row of metal folding chairs that creaked with even the slightest movement. Larry and Charlotte with whom I’d been living for a year and a half now, beamed at me encouragingly from their seats. Mr. Epler, my sixth grade teacher and the official judge for the spelling bee, sat at a desk by the side entrance to the room, flipping through the huge Merriam Webster Collegiate Dictionary. With few exceptions, most of the other people just looked bored. Some, I noticed, had fallen asleep. I didn’t blame them: for the past half hour, there had been only two of us left competing in this brutal contest: Beverly Simpson, who wore black horn-rimmed glasses and tight, brown, perfectly-shaped Shirley Temple curls in her hair—and me.
This was astonishing. It was a well-known fact that Beverly Simpson was the smartest kid at Foster Elementary School, perhaps in the whole city. She’d never had a grade lower than an ‘A’. And she had arrogantly announced at the last Science Fair (in which she’d taken first prize for her papier-mâché human skeleton—complete with internal organs that looked startlingly real) that she had already begun working toward a career as a doctor for the Peace Corps. I imagined Beverly’s mother spending hours every night quizzing Beverly on her math or science while she wrapped little hanks of hair in rags and tied them in knots on top of Beverly’s head. As for me, it wasn’t entirely out of the question that I might have a future in taxicab driving or even coal mining. I felt lucky at the end of each semester if I’d managed a ‘C’ average on my report card. I’d been told all my life that I was smart, but a lazy smart. There was no way was I in the same mental league as Beverly. To think of beating her in any sort of intellectual contest would be, well, stupid.
And yet, standing before the crowd, I couldn’t help thinking to myself: I could win this.
Call it a hunch, or perhaps my innate optimism, which I had been told sometimes flew in the face of reality. Or maybe it was just blind hope, the idea that, just this once, God might smile on me and make it so Mr. Grant, as he had thus far, would ask me to spell only words I already knew. That I’d be rewarded, if not for my brainpower, at least for my effort. For hadn’t I studied for this stupid spelling bee every night for the past two weeks, poring over the dictionary, paying particular attention to those weird words that had the reputation for tripping up unsuspecting sixth graders in potentially life-threatening situations such as this? Words like ‘valleys’ and ‘neighbors’? And ‘pneumonia’?
Beverly’s little pink mouth turned up in a smug grin upon hearing Mr. Grant’s latest pronouncement. She evidently knew exactly how to spell pneumonia.
So did I.
I stood facing the huge crowd, trying not to let the stage-fright I was feeling creep all the way into my throat, or worse, into my brain, so that I wouldn’t be able to think or speak. In my mind’s eye, I could see the word, clearly: pneumonia. All I had to do was read it aloud from the picture I had in my brain.
I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could, the heavy doors at the back of the room clattered open, and in stepped—Mama, of all people, bringing with her a blinding shaft of late-morning brightness that cut into the room like a searchlight. Nearly everyone turned to look, and—I was certain—to wonder what idiot was coming to this thing when it was nearly over.
Even against the light, I knew it was Mama, dressed in her olive-green suit and black high-heel shoes she normally wore to work (whenever she actually had a job) or to special occasions. My heart jumped; something in my stomach tightened into a solid ache. I cringed. The metal door clanged shut behind her. She stood there for a second, trying to adjust to the relative darkness, looking confused and embarrassed. A couple of men got up from their seats and scrambled around trying to find a chair for Mama, without success. Eventually one of the men gave his chair to her, and then stood against the back wall with his arms folded.
If I was embarrassed and angry that Mama had come in so late, that she’d made such an ass of herself, it was nothing compared to the shock I felt that she’d come at all. Of course, I should have known something was afoot: Charlotte had offhandedly asked me the night before if I thought Mama might show up, and I as much as told her I’d be crazy to think that. In the last year and a half, I had seen Mama exactly once. I reminded Charlotte of this. She had only smiled.
What contact Mama and I did have had been over the phone, every couple of months or so. Our conversations were usually strained, short variations on a well-worn theme:
So, how are you doing? She always sounded distant. Aloof. I half suspected she watched TV while she talked with me.
Fine, I guess. (Long pause.)
Yeah? So, how’s school? You bringing your grades up?
I’m trying. Social Studies is boring. I might be getting a ‘D’ in it.
A ‘D’? What’s the matter with you? You can do better than that. You know how important your grades are.
Yeah, Mama, I know.
You keep up this way and you’re gonna be washing dishes (or driving a cab, or digging ditches, or sweeping the streets) for the rest of your life. Is that what you want?
(Heavy sigh) I don’t know.
What? What do you mean, ‘you don’t know’?
I mean, I don’t know what I want.
Yeah, well, if you want anything worth a damn, you’re gonna need good grades. No ifs, ands, or buts about it.
I know, I know.
Are you listening to me?
Yeah, Mama, I’m listening. I know.
I was never very good at hiding the snot in my voice.
“Would you like for me to repeat the word, young man?” Mr. Grant’s sonorous voice broke my reverie. I shook my head, tried to get back the image of the word: pneumonia. Or—wait—was it pnuemonia? It was right there. But the ‘u’ and the ‘e’ were jumping back and forth in their places, e-u, u-e, e-u, u-e. Pretty soon the whole word looked foreign. Fuck!, I almost said out loud. I can’t remember! I should know this!
I had to say something. Everybody was looking at me. Mama was looking at me. I cleared my throat and plunged into it: “Pneumonia. P-N—” I paused, straining to see the word in my brain more clearly. All I could conjure up was the image of Mama, sitting on her butt in front of the TV with the phone to her ear, chewing my ass because of my stupid grades. My stomach tightened, cutting off my breath. I couldn’t wait any longer. “—U-E-M-O-N-I-A. Pneumonia.”
Someone in the audience chuckled, probably someone from Beverly’s family. I knew right away I was screwed. Mr. Epler flipped through the dictionary, shaking his head slowly. There was a quiet but noticeable murmur through the crowd. Mama and Larry and Charlotte: all of them smiled with patronizing sadness, as if I’d just blurted out I’d been diagnosed with a brain tumor that not only would end up killing me, but had already rendered me incredibly stupid. Poor Billy!
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Grant’s amplified voice resounded through the room like a volley of firing squad rifles. “That is not correct.” He waited. I sat down, struggling to keep from crying. Beverly stood, eyes sparkling. Now it was her turn to know that she could win this thing. “The word is ‘pneumonia’,” Mr. Grant said again, soothingly.
Beverly cleared her throat: “Pneumonia. P-N-” She paused for a second. Her brow crunched up a little. “P-N-,” she started again, “-U-E-M-O-N-I-A. Pneumonia.”
Several in the crowd gasped, most likely again from Beverly’s family. Beverly blinked, and then grew wide-eyed as she realized her mistake. Her face crumpled. For a moment I thought she might start crying. My heart leapt, as if I’d just that moment learned my brain tumor had been misdiagnosed. I would live a normal, even exceptionally long, life. I’d be smart. The noise of the crowd grew louder, approaching pandemonium. Mr. Grant raised his hand regally into the air and held it there until everyone was quiet. “I’m sorry,” he said into the microphone, “but that is also incorrect. The correct spelling is P-N-E-U-M-O-N-I-A.” He turned and peered over his wire-rimmed glasses at the crowd behind him. “Ladies and gentlemen, as there is no clear winner here, we will have to continue on with another word. Thank you for your patience.”
I stood and looked out at Charlotte and Larry. Larry held up a hand with crossed fingers. Charlotte smiled and winked. Then I looked at Mama, who seemed to look back at me without any expression at all. Again, something ached in my stomach. Mr. Grant adjusted his glasses on his nose and read from his list. “The word is, gubernatorial, as in, ‘Edmund G. Brown won the gubernatorial election.’ Gubernatorial.”
Mr. Epler flipped through the dictionary again. I’d heard the word before, but I didn’t recall having seen it in print. It seemed easy enough. I sounded it out in my head. All I had to do was spell it like it sounded, right?
“Gubernatorial,” I said, trying to sound confident. “G-O-O-B-E-R-N-A-T-O-R-I-A-L. Gubernatorial.”
Another amused murmur from the crowd, mixed with barely restrained laughter. Again, Mr. Epler shook his head sadly. Even Mama was smiling, my idiocy once again confirmed in her mind. “No, that is not correct,” said Mr. Grant. I felt weak, sick to my stomach. The doctor had called me in to tell me the new diagnosis was actually a misdiagnosis. I really was stupid. I really was going to die.
I sat down and waited for the end. Thankfully, it was swift. Beverly stood and listened patiently to Mr. Grant while he repeated the word, then rattled off in a sing-song voice: “Gubernatorial. G-U-B-E-R-N-A-T-O-R-I-A-L. Gubernatorial.”
The room was silent. Mr. Grant and Beverly seemed to share the same smug expression. Mr. Grant turned and faced the audience, and said, “That is correct. And now, ladies and gentlemen, you may applaud.”
They did. Loudly. Though I suspect their applause was as much to celebrate the ending of the spelling bee as it was to congratulate Beverly Simpson.
Just like that, I was dead and buried. I looked over at the other losers, some of whom had been forced to sit there for nearly an hour while the last few of us had fought it out. Parents oozed from their seats and came to the front to shake hands and pat their kids on the back and say, Nice try; you gave it your best. Charlotte and Larry came to the front and patted me on the back and shook my hand and told me to buck up. I still did a fine job, they said. Second place wasn’t so bad. Look at all the other kids who didn’t make it this far.
A minute later, Mama came up and gave me a half hug, and said, smiling, “I thought for sure you would know that word. Weren’t they using it on the news every evening during the last election?”
I shrugged. Larry and Charlotte grinned awkwardly and nodded hello to Mama, and told me they’d meet me in the parking lot. Mama and I stood there for a few minutes in the emptying room, not knowing what to say, and ending up just looking around.
“Well,” I said, looking toward the door, “I guess we’d better—”
Mama sighed and nodded. “I guess so,” she said.
We went outside and stood on the sidewalk. Larry and Charlotte milled around the car in the nearby parking lot and tried not to look anxious to leave. Mama looked at her watch and said she couldn’t stay long; she had a bus to catch in just a few minutes. “I tried to make it here earlier,” she said, “but you know how the buses run.”
“Yeah,” I said. We talked idly about how warm it was for this early in the Spring, what a good school this was, and wasn’t it nice that I had so many friends? That sort of stuff. She looked at her watch again and clucked her tongue. Then she hugged me, told me I’d do better next time, she knew it, and walked away. I watched her until she disappeared around the corner, the familiar tock-tock-tock of her high-heeled shoes fading away.
I realized then I’d forgot to thank her for coming.