Family Fruitcake Frenzy

by Margaret Lashley

  Tom sighed. “I guess.”

  “I didn’t tell you, but when I got up this morning, I found out Mom had searched the entire kitchen for my fruitcake. She wants to sabotage it, Tom. She can’t stand the idea of anyone else – not even her own daughter – winning that stupid competition.”

  “I don’t buy that, Val. If she wanted you to lose, why did she show you how to make her recipe yesterday?”

  Tom’s question short-circuited my argument. “I don’t know.” A dim lightbulb went off in my brain. “Wait a minute! The only thing that makes sense is.... Yes! Tom, the thing that makes Mom win every year...I bet good money it’s not what’s in the cake recipe, but what’s on it. It’s gotta be whatever booze she’s using to douse it with!”

  “Huh.” Tom shot me a look that conveyed he was impressed. “That’s a good theory, detective. You could be right. So where are we off to now?”

  “Aunt Pansy and Uncle Popeye’s.”

  Tom shook his head. “Where in the world do they get these names?”

  I smirked. Poor Tom was a fish out of water, all right. “Popeye’s a nickname. Pansy, on the other hand, is the real deal.”

  “Who are they? You’re mom’s brother or sister?”

  I shot Tom an evil grin. He scrunched his eyebrows at me. “Don’t you dare say ‘both’ Val!”

  I laughed out loud. “They’re the couple who spawned my lovely cousin, Tammy Jeeter.”

  “Oh.”

  Mom snorted so loud she woke herself up. She blinked her grouchy eyes and yelled, “Turn left here!”

  I’d been so caught up in conversation I’d forgotten to give Tom directions.

  “Valiant! Can’t you do anything right?” Mom grumbled.

  “Sorry, Mom.” I bit my lip and stared at the road ahead.

  ACCORDING TO MY MOTHER, Aunt Pansy and Uncle Popeye lived like “respectable folks” in a real house made of red clay bricks imported straight from Augusta, Georgia. After I’d missed that left turn, Mom had fired me from my job as Tom’s navigator and had commandeered both the SUV and the conversation. With barking commands, Mom directed Tom past the bottom of a hill to a narrow dirt road with the unfortunate name of Smelly Bottom Lane.

  “That’s the one,” Mom said. She pointed a chubby finger at a brick house so spotless and blank it could only belong to someone with OCD or a severe mental disturbance. Not a bush blighted the borders of the house or yard with its unsightly green leaves. No messy potted flowers adorned the entryway. No welcome sign or mat gathered dust by the door. And the lawn was cut with such precision it might have been hand-trimmed with an electric shaver.

  Knowing my Uncle Popeye, it probably had.

  But despite the outward pretense of peaceful perfection, a legendary, long-standing battle of wills festered and boiled behind the quiet, brick façade. Aunt Pansy and Uncle Popeye were well known around Greenville as “The A-rab and the Shrew.”

  Aunt Pansy was slender, pale and frail-looking, but her flowery name and unassuming physique didn’t fool anyone who truly knew her. If crossed, she could slice you to ribbons with her razor-sharp tongue before you could say, “How do.” She also held grudges going back to before the invention of electricity.

  Uncle Popeye’s nickname was the biggest misnomer in Jackson County, short of Grand Ridge, a blip of a town with no “ridge” and absolutely nothing “grand” to speak of, unless you counted the one-and-only flashing yellow light at its intersection with Highway 90. The truth was, Uncle Popeye’s eyeballs didn’t protrude from his skull at all. Quite the opposite. His dark, beady eyes were sunk beneath a brow ridge so pronounced a seasoned rock climber would think twice about trying to scale it.

  Of course, I didn’t tell Tom any of this. I mean, how could I have? It was better that he figured it all out on his own. I knocked on the door and squeezed out a happy face.

  “Why if it isn’t little Vallie!” Aunt Pansy said with a smile that looked almost genuine.

  “Who is it?” Uncle Popeye’s voice sounded from inside the house.

  Aunt Pansy’s jolly face transformed into something dead and evil. Her head whirled halfway around like something out of a horror movie. “Why don’t you get off your lazy behind and come find out for yourself?” she screeched at her husband. Her face then transformed again as she turned back to me and showed me that genuine replica of a smile.

  “Y’all come on in!”

  I took a tentative step across the threshold into their house of ill dispute. Aunt Pansy gave me a stiff hug as Tom, Mom and Dale wondered in like prisoners checking out their new cells and cellmates. Uncle Popeye emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of air freshener, filling the room with the aroma of rose petals dipped in manure.

  “Caught me doin’ my constitutional duty,” he said merrily. “Woman, ain’t you got no sense?” he griped at Aunt Pansy. He picked up the newspapers strewn all over the couch. His merry voice came back. “Y’all have a seat. Sit a spell.”

  We lined ourselves up along the overstuffed sofa upholstered in a plaid pattern that was outlawed for hideousness in 1978. All four of us sat on the edge of the cushions. There wasn’t any use getting comfortable when a quick getaway might be required at any moment.

  “Anybody want some sweet tea?” Aunt Pansy offered.

  “Your tea is too sweet,” Uncle Popeye complained. “I swear sometimes all you do is put a drop a water in a jar a cane syrup.”

  Aunt Pansy’s smiling face went slack. “You best watch your tongue, Buford D. Jeeter.”

  For a split second, I wasn’t sure who she was talking to. It was the first time I’d ever heard Uncle Popeye’s real name.

  “I’d love some tea,” I said, to break the tension.

  Uncle Popeye laughed and looked over at my mother. “You sure went and let yourself go, Lucille.”

  My mother’s eyes turned to slits. “You calling me fat? Look in the mirror, Popeye. Chippendales ain’t gonna be callin’ you anytime soon.”

  I braced for a bar brawl, but then something unexpected happened. Mom and Uncle Popeye started laughing. I was so shocked, I sprang up from my seat as if I’d sat on a tack.

  “I’ll help you with the tea,” I said to Aunt Pansy.

  “Good girl.”

  I followed my aunt into the kitchen. As we fixed the drinks, I eavesdropped in on the “friendly banter” between Mom and Uncle Popeye that continued on in the adjacent living room.

  “Don’t be disrespecting me, Lucille Jolly Short.” Uncle Popeye said. “I got a lot invested in this here belly!”

  “You sure do,” Mom said. “Whatever fifty kegs of beer cost. One of these days, Popeye, you’re gonna run out of brain cells to kill off.”

  “You should know. It done happened to you.”

  The cordial laughter that followed left me shaking my head in wonder.

  “You all right?” Aunt Pansy asked.

  “Sure. I didn’t realize those two got along. I thought they hated each other.”

  “There’s more than one way to express your admiration, Val. Some people ain’t comfortable saying things straight out. You gotta learn to read between the lines. Now help me carry the tea, would you?” Aunt Pansy smiled at me, grabbed three glasses of tea, then changed her face back to evil swamp monster mode.

  “Popeye! You ain’t got no manners at all!” Aunt Pansy screeched. “The only culture you got is growin’ in your undershorts!”

  Uncle Popeye sneered at Aunt Pansy, then addressed his captive audience. “Don’t believe a word outta that crazy old woman’s mouth. She’s always ovary actin’...

  Tom and I exchanged wide-eyed glances.

  ...’cause let’s face it. Women folk just can’t handle life without a man by their side.”

  That last remark proved to be one A-rab step too far for the Shrew. She blew by me and grabbed an iron skillet from on top of the stove. Uncle Popeye’s beady eyes almost did pop out when he saw her. He flinched and blurted, “I got me a new pressure washer, fellers. Wa
nna see it?”

  Before Aunt Pansy could take a swing, all three guys had disappeared out the door.

  “Good riddance,” Aunt Pansy said as the front door slammed. She set the tea glasses back on the kitchen counter and took a seat in Uncle Popeye’s chair. I handed Mom a glass of tea.

  “I guess he never forgive you for runnin’ over his dog,” Mom said.

  Aunt Pansy shook her head. “Nope. But he’s softened up some over the years.”

  Mom took a sip of her tea. “It could use a touch more sugar.”

  I sampled my glass. The overpowering sweetness set my teeth on edge.

  “So what have you been up to, Vallie?” Aunt Pansy asked. “I haven’t seen you in a month a Sundays.”

  “I was in Europe for seven years. Only been back a little over two years now. Things didn’t work out with Friedrich, as you probably know.”

  Aunt Pansy glanced over at my mother. “Yes, I heard. But it looks like you got a new fella now. What’s his name?”

  With all the commotion, I’d forgotten to introduce Tom! “Oh! I’m sorry. His name is Tom Foreman.”

  “What’s he do for a livin’?”

  “He’s a police officer. A lieutenant.”

  “Handsome lookin’ devil,” Aunt Pansy said, then flinched. “Oh, no offense. I didn’t mean he was a devil or nothing.”

  I smiled. “I know.”

  “Y’all gonna get married?”

  “I don’t know. The idea kind of scares me, to be honest.”

  “Why ever for, child? You done been married now what? Four times?”

  My face flushed with heat. “Three.”

  “No shame in that, Vallie,” Aunt Pansy said unconvincingly.

  “But you and Uncle Popeye...you’ve been married since you were kids.”

  Aunt Pansy smiled wryly. “Just ‘cause it stuck don’t mean it’s all happily ever after.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, why do you stay together, Aunt Pansy? You two argue all the time.”

  “It suits us.”

  “Arguing suits you?”

  Mom and Aunt Pansy exchanged knowing glances.

  “When me and Lucille was growing up, our ma and pa fought like wild cats and stray dogs. Ain’t that right, Lucille?”

  Mom nodded. “Yep.”

  “But they was always there for each other. And we young’uns got used to it. We got ‘broke in’ to hearing a heap of fussing and fighting, like you do a pair a shoes, you know?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, after a while, the bickering felt normal. Good even. Like arguing all the time was all right. No. Better’n all right. Griping and complaining was just the way it was. Ma and Pa showed us it was the right thing to do.” Aunt Pansy looked up. “Ain’t that right, Lucille?”

  We looked over where Mom had been sitting. Mom wasn’t in the room.

  Aunt Pansy’s face turned to stone. “Lucille!” she yelled, then turned to me. “Dad-burn it! I can’t believe that sorry sister of mine!”

  Before Aunt Pansy could get up out of her chair, Mom reappeared and shot Aunt Pansy a smug look. “What?” She asked, her face a glorious imitation of redneck innocence. “I was putting more sugar in my tea.”

  Then Mom did something that made my gut drop four inches with guilt. She winked at me. Somehow I’d become a pawn in my mother’s evil fruitcake-sabotage plan.

  Aunt Pansy stood up. “Lucille, if I –”

  “Mom?” The front door flew open and a familiar voice rang out again. “Mom, where are you?”

  Aunt Pansy’s unspoken threat hung suspended in the tense air, as footsteps clomped down the foyer. A second later, Tammy Jeeter stepped into view, wearing a short red dress that perfectly matched her shin-high cowboy boots.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “TAMMY, HONEY!” AUNT Pansy cried out. “You made it home for Christmas!”

  “Hi, Mom.” Tammy’s greeting came out half-squelched as her mom hugged the stuffing out of her. “You know I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “Look who’s here,” Aunt Pansy said. She turned Tammy toward us for a better look. Tammy’s smiling eyes dulled when they reached my face.

  “Hi, Aunt Lucille. Hey, Val.”

  “Hey, Tammy.”

  “You drive over here all by your lonesome?” Aunt Pansy asked, taking Tammy’s purse from her shoulder.

  “No. I brought Rich with me.”

  “Rich? Who’s that?”

  Tammy eyed me with the same horror-movie grin she inherited from her mother. My face shot red-hot. I’d hoped to never see phallic-faced “Dick” again. I guess I could cross that wish off my Christmas list.

  “Rich is a guy I met when I was staying with Val all last week, right Val?”

  A confused smile crept across my lips. Then my embarrassment evaporated into anger. I’m being played for an alibi – by the same hateful hick who stole my fruitcake!

  “Well, that’s not exactly –” I began.

  “Rich works for the mayor’s office in St. Petersburg,” Tammy said snottily, cutting me off.

  “Ooooh, the mayor’s office,” cooed Aunt Pansy. “That sounds important. A lot more important than a police lieutenant!”

  So that’s how it was going to be, huh?

  I looked over at my mother. She was settled into the sofa like a spectator waiting for a prize fight to begin. All that was missing was the popcorn.

  Well, what the hell. Might as well give Mom a show. Never let it be said Val Fremden couldn’t stoop to a challenge.

  “It’ll be nice to see Dick...I mean Rich...again,” I said, my voice so sweet I almost gagged myself. “Did you enjoy the fruitcake, Tammy?”

  Tammy glared at me and tapped a fake nail against her cheek.

  “Just when exactly did you get back?” Mom asked to stir the pot.

  Tammy forced a polite smile and directed her answer at my mother, but her evil eyes remained glued on me. “I stopped by your house yesterday, Aunt Lucille, but you weren’t home.”

  My mind raced. What? Could Tammy have been the one who rifled through the kitchen while we were out walking last night? Mom never locks her door....

  “Did you bring Rich with you?” Aunt Pansy asked.

  “Yes. He’s outside with the other fellas.”

  “Well then, go fetch him!” Aunt Pansy commanded, as if Tammy should have known better.

  Tammy bit her lip, then turned and stomped toward the door. Aunt Pansy turned to Mom and me and said, “I’m gonna go freshen up.” She hightailed it to the bathroom, hands already thrust in her hair, trying to poof it up. Mom and I were abandoned to our own devices.

  “What did you mean by that fruitcake comment?” Mom asked when she was sure Aunt Pansy was out of earshot.

  “When Tammy left my place, she stole my fruitcake. I’d been marinating it for weeks. The one you fed it to poor old Dawson was a replacement one. Probably the only reason that old hound’s still alive.”

  “Huh,” Mom grunted.

  “Mom, you don’t think Tammy will try to enter my cake in the competition?”

  Mom stuck out her lower lip and shrugged. “I don’t know. But it don’t matter, Val. She can’t win even if she does. Neither can her momma. I made sure of that.” Mom smiled and patted her purse.

  I shook my head. “Why does winning matter so much to you?”

  “You saw them two. Ain’t it obvious, Val? They think they’s better than us.”

  The front door opened. Tammy’s telltale clomping echoed across the floor. She stomped into the living room, dick-nosed Rich towering at her side.

  When Mom spotted him, her eyes grew as big as poached eggs. She screamed, “Ah-wooo!” and slapped her hand over her own mouth.

  Aunt Pansy came running out of the bathroom. “Lucille! What are you –” She caught a look at Rich’s penile proboscis and her knees buckled. She fell backwards onto her scrawny butt, then scrambled to her feet, her face as red as raw hamburger. Tammy’s expression convinc
ed me she was prepared to chew through hardened steel.

  “Why, welcome to our humble home,” Aunt Pansy fumbled. She extended a hand toward Rich, but couldn’t bring her Bible-thumping heart to look at his obscene face. When his hand touched hers, she flinched and closed her eyes, as if she’d been forced to pick up a human turd barehanded.

  My mother, bless her evil little heart, started laughing. And laughing. And laughing some more. She didn’t even stop after she’d gone and wet her pants. Tammy and Aunt Pansy looked as if they’d just lost their life savings.

  “I think we need to go,” I said. “Mom’s had a little uh –”

  Mom doubled over with laughter again and farted loud enough to rattle the windows. I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her toward the foyer. “We’ll see you all at Christmas!” I said brightly, not daring to look in their faces. I yanked Mom out the front door. As soon as it slammed closed, I burst out laughing myself. Mom and I looked at each other and cracked up. Disabled by gut-splitting screams of laughter, we fell on our hands and knees, then rolled around in the precision-trimmed yard snorting until tears streamed from our eyes.

  “You two okay?” Tom asked as he walked up to us.

  “Yes,” I managed between giggles. “But I think it’s time for us to go.”

  Tom shook his head in wonderment. “What the heck happened?”

  Mom sat up in the grass and gasped for air. “Tammy’s always...had a thing... for fruitcakes.” She fell backward again on the ground, laughing like a deranged chimpanzee.

  Tom studied my mother. “Is she drunk?”

  I stifled a smirk. “In a way, yeah. Help me get her in the car, Tom. I’ll tell you all about it on the way home.”

  TOM HAD SCROUNGED A garbage bag from the back of his SUV for Mom’s pee-butt to sit on. Exhausted from her laughing fit, she was soon snoring in the backseat as we bumped down the road, making our getaway from Smelly Bottom Lane. Poor Dale didn’t last much longer than mom. Either he was bone-tired too, or the ammonia fumes had knocked him out cold.

  “They’re both asleep,” I whispered. “Mom peed herself laughing at Tammy’s boyfriend.”