Jelly Donuts

JELLY DONUTS

by James Snell

Amarillo, Texas, December 1960

The semester ended for me when the play was over. Graziella and I fade into the woodwork. Joy—Maria—, on the other hand, is a star! She can hardly get to class because of kids constantly coming up to ooh and ahh about her performance—a scene that repeats between every class.

When I get to Drama, I can’t bear to sit next to her like I’ve done for months—I take a seat in the opposite corner. But it doesn’t work. I’m sitting here scribbling on a note pad when those legs walk into my field of vision.

“Betty? What are you doing over here? Are you mad at me?”

I want to be mad, but how can I when she’s always so sweet?

“Uh, no. Why would I be mad? Just thought I’d change the scenery.”

“Can I join you?”

“Of course.”

Mrs. Fields goes over the high and low points of Friday’s performance—I guess trying to teach us something. Blah, blah, blah. I’m not in the mood for education.

The next thing I know, Joy’s pushing on my shoulder. “Hey, wake up.”

I jump and my head almost collides with hers. “Oh.” I stretch my arms and yawn. “Well, that was exciting.”

“You’re so funny. Hey, would you like to come to my house Friday night? It’s Hanukkah. My mother makes latkes and jelly donuts. We play music and games.”

“Your mom makes jelly donuts?”

“She does.”

“What are latkes?”

“They’re like . . . hash-brown pancakes.”

“Oh. My mom makes potato pancakes. Are they Jewish?”

“I guess.”

“Will I be intruding on a religious thing?”

Joy laughs, running her fingers through that fabulous red hair. “Oh, I don’t think we’re very Jewish. Hanukkah’s like Christmas but for eight days with smaller presents.”

***

Mama looked at me funny when I told her about Joy’s invitation. I didn’t tell her the Hanukkah part, though—I’ve heard our preacher say the Jews killed Jesus. “The girl who got the part you wanted invited you to spend the night?” she asked. Mama can’t believe it either.

As Mama pulls the car up to the address, she leans her head down to see through my window. “She lives in a mansion?”

I look out. Yep, two or three of our houses would probably fit inside.

“I guess they do.” I shove the door open, reach over the back seat, and grab my bag. “Bye, Mama,” I say, slamming the door.

The house is like something out of a movie. There’s a paved path, then steps up to the front porch, two giant wood doors flanked by red brick—no screen door. The doorbell’s lit up. I push it and hear a pleasant “ding dong.”

A door whooshes open, and there’s Joy. In a dress—like she’s heading to church. I look down at my plain white blouse and jeans. “I didn’t know it was dress up.”

“You’re fine. I’m just wearing this because my jeans are too tight.”

Yep. Joy’s curves have grown this semester. I can’t help but be jealous of her curves. And those legs. And that fabulous red hair.

Joy takes my bag and places it next to the stairs. Every piece of furniture looks like it cost more than everything in our house put together. The wood floors shine. A fireplace is glowing in the room to the left. A staircase winds from the right and crosses the room above us. I hear music and happy voices coming from somewhere beyond.

“Is that Hanukkah, I hear?”

“Right this way.” Joy smiles, takes my hand, and leads me in the direction of the music and merriment.

We pass through two swinging doors leading to a huge den. Two young girls in nice dresses are playing a game on the floor. Joy’s parents are sitting in large leather chairs separated by a small table topped by a glass lamp, smoking cigarettes and drinking cocktails. The most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard is shining from a HiFi.

Mrs. Porter is the source of Joy’s red hair and great legs. She looks like Deborah Kerr in An Affair to Remember, in her emerald party dress with matching high heels. I look down again at my blouse and jeans.

Mrs. Porter springs up from her chair, while deftly putting her cocktail glass on the table and her cigarette on an ash tray.

“Betty,” she says, like she knows me, as she seems to glide the distance between us. She’s the prettiest mother I’ve ever seen.

She extends her hand. “Welcome to our home.” Her voice is also from the movies.

I look at my hand, then put it in hers. No adult has ever greeted me like this. Ever.

“Thank you, Mrs. Porter. . . . You look like a movie star.”

Mr. Porter, who’s wearing a black suit with a green tie that matches his wife’s dress, is now standing at her side, and they both laugh. He puts his arm around her. “I tell her that all the time. It’s gotten me where I am today.”

Mr. Porter looks like how I remember Milton Berle when we used to watch his show. He has the same slicked-back hair, although brown not black, high cheekbones, bright eyes, and a big smile.

“Joy’s always saying how pretty you are. You’re even prettier up close.”

Before I can say, “huh?”, Mr. Porter adds, “We saw you in Romeo and Juliet last spring.”

“You did?”

“Joy has been interested in acting since she was very young. We were all impressed,”Mrs. Porter says, then the smile fades from her face. “It’s so sad what happened to that boy—and to Miss Easley. . . . Oh, dear, that must’ve been very hard for you.”

A lump forms in my throat. “He was such a nice boy. . . . And Miss Easley was such a nice teacher.”

It strikes me as unusual how much Joy’s mother followed all the happenings—the awkward moment is all over Joy’s face.

“I . . . Uh . . . I didn’t realize it was a party. I would’ve worn a dress.”

“Oh, Betty, don’t you worry, now,” Mrs. Porter says. “Partying the Friday night of Hanukkah was our families’ tradition back in Brooklyn.”

“New York? That’s why you sound like the actors in the movies,” I say.

“Do we?” Mrs. Porter grins at Mr. Porter.

“What’s this music? Is that a black woman singing?”

One of the girls playing on the floor pops up. “That’s Miss Billie Holiday.”

I bend to her eye level. “And who are you?”

“I’m Ella. And this is my sister, Nora,” she points to the other girl. “Who are you?”

Joy’s now standing beside me. “Nora, Ella, meet my friend Betty.”

“How old are y’all?” I ask.

Ella answers, “I’m nine, and Nora is seven.”

“You know a lot about music,” I say.

“Father teaches us.”

I look at Mr. Porter, who smiles.

“Well, I love Miss Billie Holiday,” I tell Ella.

Mr. Porter smiles. “Joy says you have an artistic flair.”

I put my arm around Joy’s shoulder. “Joy’s the nicest friend I’ve ever had.”

Miss Billie Holiday is singing, “God bless the child that’s got his own.” and I feel blessed by these people and their God.

“Well,” Mrs. Porter says, putting her hands together, “I hope everyone is hungry.” Mr. Porter puts his arm around her waist, and they lead us into the next room.

It’s a dining room like I’ve never seen, except in the movies. The table has a dozen chairs. It’s covered in a blue and white tablecloth, and there’s a beautiful candleholder in the middle, with lots of candles, though only some burning. The plates are white with a blue border, matching the tablecloth. There’s a long buffet table against the wall with serving dishes full of food.

Joy tugs at my sleeve, “Here, this can be your place.” She places her hand on a chair in the middle of the table. “I’ll lead you through Mother’s buffet.”

I follow her to the buffet.

“This is Father’s famous brisket,” she says, using tongs to pick up two slices of juicy meat from a large pan. “One or two?”

“I can start with one—I’m not a football player!” I laugh.

She spoons a thick white sauce from a small bowl.

“What’s the sauce?” I ask.

“Horseradish and sour cream. You should try it.” Then, she spoons sauce onto my plate. “Next are the latkes.”

I follow Joy’s lead, taking two latkes and some applesauce, followed by what Joy calls, “root salad”—beets and sweet potatoes with a dressing she says is “yummy.”

“What are those?” I ask, pointing to a plate full of brown rolls.

“The donuts.”

“But there’s no holes.”

“No, but there’s jelly in them—like I promised.”

We put our plates down, as I watch Mrs. Porter helping Nora fix her plate. I can’t remember Mama ever being so sweet to me.

Ella walks up with her plate. “Can I sit next to you, Betty?”

Aww. “Of course, you can.”

“Do you still remember Juliet’s lines?”

“You saw the play too?”

“We all went. I didn’t really understand all the words, but it made me sad when you died.”

I died. That’s how it has felt.

“Yes. The play is what’s called a tragedy.”

“I know what a tragedy is.” Ella says. “Mother read Bambi to me. . . . What was it like playing dead in front of all those people?”

My. “You tell me. Did it look real?”

She puts her finger to her lips. “I thought you were really dead—but just for a minute.”

This is the first moment since I heard Garner being beaten in the parking lot I’ve been able to enjoy the performance.

“That’s what good acting does,” Joy chimes in.

“Yeah. You scared me when you were waving that gun around after Tony died,” Ella says.

Joy laughs. “Now that was fun,” she says, then shoves her chair back, jumps up, and points her finger at me and Ella. “How many bullets are left, Chino?” She forms an evil grin, baring her teeth, then swings around and points her finger at Mrs. Porter, “Enough for you?”

Then, she points at Mr Porter, who’s standing at the end of the table with a plate of food. “And you?” She hollers. She waves her gun hand back to Ella, “All of you?” She thrusts her hands above her head and looks at the ceiling. “We all killed him.”

She bends over laughing. Ella and Nora clap. I’m jealous, but I join in too.

“Can I have the floor for a blessing before we eat?” Mr. Porter asks politely. He says some strange words. “That’s Hebrew, Betty, for . . . Blessed are You, Lord our God, Ruler of the universe, at whose word all came to be.” He smiles and rubs his hands together. “Now, let’s eat.”

Joy didn’t oversell the brisket. I’ve never tasted anything quite like it. The latkes are much better than Mama’s potato pancakes, and I even like the root salad.

Frank Sinatra, who’s been in the background, is singing, what is this thing called love? And Mr. Porter joins in, looking at Mrs. Porter.

It is the strangest thing I’ve ever seen. Love.

“Oh, Sy,” Mrs. Porter says.

“Oh, Martha,” he says.

Then Mrs. Porter sings too, “Just what is this thing called love?”

Love.

I hear where Joy got her voice.

“Did y’all sing professionally?” I ask when the song is over.

They smile at each other, then at me.

Joy turns to me. “You’ll have to see the posters after we eat.”

“Posters?”

“We were in a few plays before the war,” Mr. Porter says. “Martha could have been a star.”

“Like, Broadway?” I ask.

“Yes,” Mrs. Porter said. “I was determined. And a bit lucky.”

“Oh, Martha. You weren’t lucky. You were good. . . . Martha could’ve made it in Hollywood.”

“What happened?” I ask.

Mr. Porter’s smile is gone. “Hitler. Hitler happened. Pearl Harbor happened.”

“Sy wanted to fly planes. That happened too,” Mrs. Porter laughs.

“And that’s how we ended up in the beautiful Texas Panhandle.”

“Did you fly planes in the war?”

“I worked on planes. They taught me how to be a mechanic. That brought us here.”

“We should get desserts and go to the drawing room,” Mrs. Porter says, rising from her chair.

Ella and Nora are up from their chairs and run to the buffet, and we follow.

We follow the girls into yet another big room. There are two sofas and several chairs, and a piano by the window. Joy and sit on one of the sofas. Ella and Nora take the other—donuts already in their mouths.

I pick up my donut and appraise it. I smile at Joy, close my eyes, and take a bite. Strawberry. “Mmmm. That’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“You must have gotten the strawberry.” Mrs. Porter is now sitting in the chair next to us.

“Yes ma’am.”

“It’s my favorite too,” she says.

“Do y’all wish you were in New York or Hollywood?” I ask.

Mrs. Porter closes her eyes for a moment, then looks at me, a flash of regret crossing her face. She smiles at her daughters on the floor, then over at Joy.

“Betty, this is life. Real life. I found, when I was acting, the lines blurred—I got caught up in whatever role I was playing. Sy,” she says, looking at Mr. Porter, “You’ve always apologized for dragging me away from my play acting, but I wouldn’t trade what we have here for a stage in New York—certainly not for a fake life in Hollywood.”

“But you encourage Joy,” I say.

“Don’t get me wrong. Being on the stage stretches us to find our talents. And there’s nothing more satisfying than the applause at the end.”

No. There’s not.

“West Side Story . . .,” Mrs. Porter says. “We saw it in New York. It’s a little . . . mature, for high school.”

“Because bad things happen?” My voice cracks.

Garner’s lines to me are forever seared in my memory.

“One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun

Ne’er saw her match since first the world begun.”

When I open my eyes, Mrs. Porter is standing over me. Joy moves over, and she sits beside me, putting her arm around me. “Yes. Bad things happen. We want to protect our girls from that, but we know we can’t.”

Tears roll down my face. Mama’s never acknowledged my grief over Garner. Yet, here’s a stranger, another girl’s mother, comforting me.

I fall into the sofa cushion. I expect Mrs. Porter to leave the sofa and go back to her adult chair. But she doesn’t. She leans back too. “Whatever Caroline Easley did wrong, it wasn’t your fault. Sometimes, grownups with . . . with power can be so cruel.”

What is she talking about?

Joy covers her mouth and turns away.

Mr. Porter clears his throat. “Betty, we feel badly for—”

“We were complicit, Sy,” Mrs. Porter says.

“Mother, what—” Joy’s distraught.

“Joy, Betty’s your friend,” Mrs. Porter says. “She deserves to know . . . at least, what we know.”

“I’m so, sorry, Betty.” Joy’s crying.

Mrs. Porter takes my hands. “That foolish principal at your school. He forgot you are the student. He just couldn’t put out of his mind what he was told about you—about you and Miss Easley.”

“What?” My voice is hoarse. They haven’t said it, but I’m getting the picture.

“Oh, Betty.” Mrs. Porter laments.

“What did they say?” I whisper.

“That you and your teacher were familiar.”

“Familiar?”

“That she told you to call her Caroline, that she served you alcohol and cigarettes. That she played jazz music—”

Mr. Porter laughs. Our eyes meet. “Now, Betty, you really should stay away from all that jazz. It’s from the devil, you know.”

I love this man.

“Caroline—she will always be Caroline to me,” I say. “It’s her name. She cared about me and didn’t treat me like I was a child.”

“Well, they have their rules,” Mr. Porter says.

“I feel so bad. She lost her job because of me.”

“No, Betty.” Mrs. Porter pats my knee. “That’s not on you. She knew. She may not have had bad intentions. But she knew she crossed a line. But,” she sighs, “it’s not fair that they’re punishing you.”

“What do you mean, punishing me?”

“I knew you wouldn’t get the part, Betty,” Joy blurts out.

“They had no business saying that in front of our daughter.” Mr. Porter sounds angry.

“We heard Miss Easley left abruptly,” Mrs. Porter explains. “We asked for a meeting. Joy signed up for drama because of her, how good your play was, how good you and that boy were.”

“They said I wouldn’t get the part in West Side Story?” It makes no sense.

“Not just that,” Mrs. Porter says. “No leads. It was like he blamed you for Miss Easley and that poor boy. If we hadn’t liked Mrs. Fields so much—we went to see her too—we might not have wanted Joy at that school at all. They have forgotten their job.”

I’m shaking and feel numb all over. What they’ve just said is so unexpected, like a jelly donut filled with sardines instead of fruit.

Joy walks over, and Mrs. Porter lets Joy have her seat. Joy puts her arms around me. “I’m so sorry, Betty. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want it this way. I didn’t think. I should’ve protested.”

I feel nothing, but I can’t let Joy feel responsible. “No, Joy. You earned the role. You were better than me. It doesn’t matter.”

I believe my words. But I know, at the same time, it does matter.