Melanie Crowder - Mazie

Audacity

An Uninterrupted View of the Sky

Jumper

IF YOU HOLD a map of the United States in both hands and fold it top to bottom, then again lengthwise, and open it back up again, chances are youve landed smack-dab in the middle of the Butterfield family farm. I should knowI spent half my childhood at my grandmothers hip, poring over her unruly stack of maps. Id lie for hours on my belly, chin in hand, clacking my heels in the air, the braided rug over the old hardwoods in the living room digging permanent imprints into the skin at my elbows and knees. Nana says you have to know where you come from to have any hope of figuring out where you need to gootherwise a compass is no better than a childs spinner toy, and a map is just a fussy drawing for folks to bicker over. Ive hardly stepped foot outside Nebraska, so I cant say as I know one way or the other.

As any agricultural map will show you, the heart of this country is corn country, and my hometown of Fairbury is no exception. In the middle of town, youll find the Frosty Top drive-in diner, where I spend my weeknights on roller skates delivering trays of burgers and fries, shakes, and ice-cold bottles of Coca-Cola. The giant ice-cream cone rotating high above the outdoor dining section is like a beacon drawing folks in from all over Jefferson County. Or maybe its the weather.

Tonights one of those sparkling spring evenings when the place is packed. Everybodys got their windows rolled down despite the chill, folks so eager to believe winter is finally behind us, they dont mind their teeth chattering so long as the sun is out. I take an extra second to steady the tray on my palm, toe the brake on my right skate, pivot the other, and holler, Door! before I clip it with my hip and wheel outside. The air is crisp, fluttering the pleats of my skirt and tugging at the pins that hold my Frosty Top cap on my head at a jaunty angle.

A song takes form in my mind like it does every time I get so much as a second to myself, building in my chest and begging to be set free as I skate toward the pickup trucks parked in V formation. This time its Getting to Know You from The King and I. The notes are simple enough and the breath work isnt too tricky, but hitting those staccatos while youre sashaying around the stage shaking hands and dropping curtseysit isnt half as easy as Deborah Kerr makes it look on screen.

Late last night when I should have been writing an essay on Senator McCarthys steep rise and abrupt fall, I was poring over the Richard Rodgers score to see if any of his songs hit the sweet spot for my voice. I can reach the high notes, sure, but the mezzo range is where my singing goes from pretty darn great to aint nobody in the room paying attention to a single thing but me. The judge at the state fair last summer said my voice was the best to come out of Nebraska in a decade.

I think Im good enough for Broadway, but I wont know for sure until I get there. In the meantime, Im studying the only way I know how. Our library in Fairbury doesnt have much in the way of a music section other than a few musty hymnals. But the librarian goes out of her way to set aside the theater section of the Times for me, and to request a steady rotation of scripts and scores from the music school in Omaha. Theyre teaching me more about technique than my voice teacher, Mrs. Muth, ever could. So I know to breathe in through my nose in the cooling air and hum for a good long while before I open up and sing.

I skate nice and slow to buy myself a little extra time, and so I dont spill the drinks. The owner of the Frosty Top, Earl, is in one of his moods today, so hed probably take the ruined meal out of my paycheck. Ive heard folks say, Awwhes more bark than bite, by which I know theyve never been on the receiving end of that particular bite. I swing a wide turn and sidle between a shiny red Chevy Bel Air and a beat-up Ford thats more rust than anything else.

Two hot chocolates, two Frosty Burgers with extra pickles, hold the mustard, and an order of skinny fries to share. I set the tray on the window hanger, pull a stack of napkins out of my apron pocket, and flash my best smile. Anything else I can get you folks?

The driver takes his time looking me up and down. Its acting practicethats what I tell myself as I freeze that smile in place and shift my gaze to the woman in the passenger seat, whos either oblivious or, more likely, willfully ignorant as to the kind of man shes with.

Nah, youre doing just fine, he drawls.

Cretin. I dont meet his eyeswont give him the satisfaction. I push off and skate back to the diner empty-handed. Its more of that acting practice to keep my hands from clenching into fists when I know his eyes are on my ass the whole way back to the diner.