by Ashton Lee
To no one’s real surprise, Voncille’s childhood rival and the insufferable diva of Cherico, Mamie Crumpton, weighed in with a contemptuous chuckle. “You could never have pulled off being an Auntie Mame—not for one instant—even if you’d had the money to do so. I think we all have to admit that if we’re talking reality here. Why, the very idea is ludicrous beyond belief.”
“I wholeheartedly disagree. I suppose you fancy yourself the real thing, Mamie Crumpton?” came Voncille’s tart reply.
“Far more than you, dear.”
“Oh, really now? Your gloomy parlor parties with the portieres drawn and those eternal weekly bridge games of yours on Perry Street where you serve nothing but mixed nuts are every one as dull as dishwater, and your sense of fashion is strictly tacky and off-the-rack; that is, if you can find anything in your size without the sequins and beads falling off of it. You’d be easy to track if you ever got lost, Mamie. The police would just follow the trail of your missing accessories.”
“Oh my. You’ve absolutely wounded me with such devastating repartee.” She clutched a hand to her bosom. “Whatever shall I do?”
Maura Beth finally decided to intervene, as she had many times in the past between the two. “Shall we stick to the plot of the novel, ladies? We did not sell tickets to a catfight.”
“Thank you for that,” Voncille said, shooting daggers at her rival. Then she took a deep, cleansing breath and stood tall. “The thing I admire most about the character of Auntie Mame is that she answers to no one. She may bend the rules a bit, but her heart is always in the right place. I’ve always adored her ‘life is a banquet’ comment. And the second part of that is ‘and most poor fools are starving to death.’ Isn’t that the God’s honest truth?”
“Would anyone care to make an adult comment on that?” Maura Beth said, staring in Mamie’s general direction.
But Mamie was having none of it, glaring back with a heave of her generous bosom. “I suppose that remark was aimed at me?”
“Not at all. What I meant was that Auntie Mame is the ultimate adult in the realm of fiction. If most fiction is the orange juice, she’s the vodka in the screwdriver. Let’s discuss the novel in those terms.”
Voncille’s voice was triumphant as she nodded enthusiastically at Maura Beth. “That’s precisely why she appealed to me. I thought to myself while I was reading the novel for the first time, I want to be just like her when I grow up. Who wouldn’t want to be that free and devil-may-care? Maybe we all start out wanting to be like that and believing it’s possible. But then real life happens, and it’s just not like the pages of some novel that makes you feel brave when you’re young and naïve. I remember the time when I thought nothing bad could ever happen to me. But it did when my fiancé, Frank Gibbons, never returned from Vietnam.”
The last sentence seemed to linger with the gathering for a bit as they reflected, but then the club’s newcomer, Ana Estrella, raised her hand and joined the conversation for the first time. It was immediately clear that her public relations skills were enabling her to express herself cogently in a strange new environment, and everyone listened to her attentively.
“I’ve read the book, of course, and I have to admit that Auntie Mame’s a role model for women who make up the rules as they go along; and I agree with Mrs. Linwood because I, too, have played it on the safe side. I went right into public relations for Spurs ’R’ Us straight out of college, and I’ve stayed there ever since. To be honest with you, moving here to Cherico is the first time I’ve ventured away from Nashville where I was born after my grandfather moved from Puerto Rico. It may not seem like a big deal to some of you, but I consider my job here a real adventure for me, and I can’t wait to get started in earnest.”
“Thank you for sharing a bit more about yourself with us, Ana,” Maura Beth said, seizing the opportunity to make her feel even more at home. “We’ve all found that our little club is a very efficient way to get to know one another, and I want to tell you again how much I appreciate you taking my advice and coming to our meeting. You have no idea how pleased I was to see you walk through the door this evening. I almost gave you a round of applause.”
“The pleasure is all mine. I hope some of you liked my bizcocho de gandules I put out on your splendid buffet table. That’s pigeon peas cake in English. That’s the secret ingredient. Mine was the one with the powdered sugar dusted all over the top, and it’s one of my family’s prized Puerto Rican recipes. As a matter of fact, I have decided to feature it at the food tent I will be operating at the Grand Opening. You can’t miss me—I’ll be the one with the big HOLA! sign on my tent.”
It was Connie McShay who began to rave about Ana’s dessert. “That’s wonderful news. The more, the merrier. And I would never have guessed your cake had pigeon peas in it. I absolutely loved it. I had an enormous piece. It tasted like cinnamon and coconut.”
“Good. Then I made it right. It’s not as heavy as some other desserts,” Ana explained.
Connie quickly pointed to her waist and shook her head slowly. “Truth is, I could’ve eaten two pieces, though heaven knows, I shouldn’t.”
Maura Beth took advantage of the lull that followed to return to the literary discussion. “Does anyone have any further thoughts on Auntie Mame? Come on, now. A free spirit like that has got to inspire more commentary. Cherico has more than its share of such types.”
This time, Becca Brachle spoke up. “Well, since my Justin and I have become a family of three recently with the birth of our son, Mark, the plot of the novel makes me think a bit about the definition of family. When little Patrick comes to live with his aunt, he really has no one else in the world to look after him after his father’s death, as I recall. But fortunately for him, he ends up with Auntie Mame and her servants—I forget their names now—”
“Ito and Norah,” Voncille put in crisply. “They all look after Patrick as if he were their own. None of them miss a beat.”
“Yes. Well, the point I was going to make is that all the while Patrick is growing up, he has a truly loving family supporting him. They may be unconventional people like that actress, Vera Charles, or that secretary, Agnes Gooch, but they all encourage him to take advantage of his Auntie Mame’s free-for-all universe. Today, I think we’ve come to understand better that families come in all configurations, and as long as there’s love and responsibility in the home, we shouldn’t be fretting so much about those configurations.” Becca gasped and briefly covered her mouth with the palm of her right hand. “Will you listen to me? I hope I didn’t sound like I was on a soapbox, but those thoughts really did come to mind just now.”
“Didn’t sound like you were preaching to me,” Jeremy said. “You made a great point that I never even considered. I guess I concentrated so much on Auntie Mame’s antics that I lost sight of what you just said.”
“So you’ve read Auntie Mame?” Voncille wanted to know.
“Sure. I think I was about fourteen, which is when I read the novel I wanted to talk about tonight—The Catcher in the Rye, by J. D. Salinger. I remember how excited I was to be checking it out of the Brentwood library. So, could I be next?”
Maura Beth immediately put the question to the group. “Are we through with Auntie Mame yet? Anyone?”
When no one answered as Maura Beth surveyed the room, she said, “Then I guess we’re ready to discuss The Catcher in the Rye.”
Jeremy allowed Voncille to take her seat and then moved to the podium quickly, assuming his most professorial demeanor. “First, I don’t think it’s an overstatement to say that Holden Caulfield, the protagonist of the novel, is probably every high school boy’s hero. He runs away from the restraints of the private school he’s attending, which he despises, and every teenaged male at one time or another has wanted to tell his teachers and those tests and grades and the peer pressure and all the rest of it where to go. When I read the novel, I thought it had been written just for me. I mean, once he leaves school, Holden explores New York C
ity and his sexuality fearlessly in a compressed amount of time, and I remember thinking what an adventure that would be going after girls that way. You have to remember how daring this all was, since J. D. Salinger wrote the book in 1951, which was years before the sexual revolution. Later on, when the movie Ferris Bueller’s Day Off was made, I couldn’t help thinking that The Catcher in the Rye might have been the inspiration for it. The plots do have a certain amount in common.”
“I read the book when I was a teenager, too,” Douglas McShay said. “All us guys thought it was the cool thing to do. But I also seem to recall that it ended up on a few banned book lists. It was considered too racy for the times. Am I remembering that right, Jeremy?”
“You are. It probably still does get banned in today’s hot-button political climate. Too much does, as far as I’m concerned.” He nodded at Maura Beth with a smile. “But I’m proud to say that librarians like my wife there work very hard to make sure censorship doesn’t happen at the local level. And I swear, she didn’t pay me to say that, either.”
After some muted laugher had died down, Connie McShay’s hand shot up, and Jeremy pointed in her direction. “I was just curious. Being the English teacher that you are, do you think there’s a novel out there that speaks to girls in the same way? Is there a female Holden Caulfield?”
Jeremy threw his head back and laughed. “Brilliant question, my dear aunt. I can answer it by saying that The Catcher in the Rye also speaks to girls in an overwhelmingly positive way if they’re particularly discerning. I’m not referring to Sunny, the prostitute, or any of the other girls that Holden gets involved with on his tear around New York—but his little sister, Phoebe, who is wise beyond her years and is almost as groundbreaking as he is. She has a forty-year-old head on her ten-year-old shoulders. Holden definitely looks up to her and is always asking her advice. At times, he even seems to be reporting to her the way he would never do to a parent. I think their unusual relationship is one of the most amusing aspects of the novel, and it proves that good things can definitely come in small packages.”
Becca spoke up with a great deal of enthusiasm, sliding forward in her seat. “I can’t believe you just said that, Jeremy. That’s exactly how I’d describe the character of Idgie Thread-goode in Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe. She’s small, feisty, and a tomboy, but she knows what she wants and goes after it. That’s the novel I wanted to talk about tonight. It always appealed to the Becca Broccoli side of me that had to keep coming up with all those recipes for my radio show five days a week; and there those two brave women were—Idgie and Ruth, operating that small-town café serving up fried green tomatoes during the Depression in Alabama and making a success of it against some stiff odds. Running a business back then was supposed to be man’s work. Women had to stay in their place. If it happened to be in the kitchen, it was as the cook, but not as the owner of the restaurant. Now, if that’s not something to admire, I don’t know what is.”
“I like Fannie Flagg’s writing, too,” Jeremy added. “Her voice is authentically Southern and historically accurate. It ought to be since she’s from the heart of Alabama—Birmingham, I believe.”
Suddenly, Becca started giggling and couldn’t seem to stop.
“What’s so funny, hon?” her Stout Fella wanted to know, a hint of concern creeping into his face.
Finally, Becca was able to gather herself. “I just had the most perverse thought. I mean, in the novel, the faithful Sipsey hits Ruth’s abusive ex-husband, Frank Bennett, over the head with a spade and kills him. Then Idgie and Big George dispose of the body by cooking him up as a Whistle Stop Cafe barbecue special, and no one has any idea what they’re being served. They just all say it’s lip-smacking delicious, and they’ve never tasted anything better as they gobble it all up. I just kept thinking about all the food tents we’re going to be having at the Grand Opening, and somehow it struck me as funny.”
“You had it right the first time,” Mamie Crumpton said with a sneer. “That’s more than perverse, it’s downright grotesque.”
“Lighten up, Sister dear,” Marydell added. “It’s all just creative fiction. I trust no one we know will be served up out at the lake on the Fourth of July. Though knowing you and your propensity for holding grudges, there are probably more than a few you wish would be.”
A wave of laughter broke the tension in the room, and then Maura Beth said, “Well, I have to admit that this conversation is about as free-for-all as you can get. Meanwhile, does anyone else have any other comments about either The Catcher in the Rye or Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe?”
“They are two very different novels, of course,” Jeremy began, sounding once again like the English teacher and lover of good literature that he was. “But they do have something in common. They tackle human sexuality somewhat openly and without apology. Holden Caulfield doesn’t know how to treat and handle women yet, but he’s not afraid to explore such virgin territory—oops, no pun intended, folks.” He paused to wag his brows, waited for the chuckles to die off, and then resumed.
“Sexuality of any kind was considered definitely taboo and out of the mainstream to discuss in the early fifties in America. There are those who would say it still pushes the buttons of way too many people today who ought to just mind their own business. But they don’t, of course. Meanwhile Idgie and Ruth clearly love each other and try to build a life together after Ruth’s failed marriage to her bully of a husband. That would have been a very courageous thing to do back in the twenties, but Fannie Flagg was pretty courageous herself in bringing these two Southern women to life with real wisdom and emotion for the reading public of modern America.”
“Why does everything you say sound like a lecture?” Mamie Crumpton said, drawing herself up in her seat and fussing with the magenta scarf around her neck. “Or a stuffy review.”
But Maura Beth was not about to let the snarky comment stand. If she could deal with Councilman Sparks and render him harmless, she could deal with the Diva of Perry Street, who needed to be the center of attention every five minutes or so. “But may I respectfully remind you that that’s why we’re here, Miz Crumpton. Our book club reviews books, and we all express our opinions. Our purpose is both social and literary, of course.”
“Don’t forget how much we love the food, though,” Becca added. Then she just couldn’t seem to resist. “I only hope no one decides to fix barbecue at the Grand Opening.”
“Hon, if you keep that up, we’ll all lose our appetites and all those tents will be a big bust,” Justin said to his wife, nudging her playfully.
“Okay. No more jokes, then. But I would like to remind everyone that I’ll be signing my Best of the Becca Broccoli Show Cookbook from eleven to two tomorrow in the lobby of the new library, even if I have to sit in a folding chair. If you’ve lost some of the recipes you wrote down while listening to my radio show, here’s your chance to get them back. The cookbook covers the entire ten-year run of the show, so I hope you’ll all come out and support me. I’ve never done anything like this before, so I’m a bit nervous about it.”
“You don’t have to worry about a thing, Becca. I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Voncille said. “Locke would just never forgive me.”
He had the biggest grin on his face, looking just like a little boy who had been given an extra dessert after dinner. “We swear by your recipes at our house, Becca. We never missed one of your shows, did we, sweetie?”
Voncille was counting on her fingers almost absentmindedly. “Well, there might have been one or two times when I was conked out in bed with the flu or went to visit relatives out of town or something like that, but I know I didn’t miss many. By the way, Becca, will you be having a food tent for us?”
“I’ve gone back and forth about it. Justin wanted me to in the worst way, but I’ve decided not to,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders. “I’ve had more than my share of success, so I wanted to give someone else a chance to win those prizes
. Goodness knows, Justin and I certainly don’t need the money.”
Then Periwinkle spoke up. “I won’t be having one, either. My prize is all the business The Twinkle gets from all of you throughout the year. But I will be casting my ballot for Best Appetizer, Entrée, Dessert, and Queen of the Cookbooks. Oh, and Parker won’t be entering the dessert category, either.”
“Might be easy as my grasshopper pie to win,” he told the gathering with a gleam in his eye. “Not an evening goes by that our Barry Bevins doesn’t have to hop in the van to deliver a piece to someone out there in Greater Cherico. Heh. I just got this image of Barry hopping around like a grasshopper.”
Periwinkle gave her husband a playful slap on the thigh. “You’re too corny for words, Parker. Meanwhile, back to our book review, I have to say that I’ve never read Fried Green Tomatoes or even seen the movie, but I’m definitely gonna have to, now that I know it’s about running a restaurant.” She suppressed a giggle. “But I just wanted all of you to know that you can trust the contents of whatever I will be serving you down at The Twinkle.”
“That goes for the desserts, too. No insects in my pies,” Parker added quickly, and the remarks brought down the house.
* * *
Would wonders never cease? At last, a meeting of The Cherry Cola Book Club that had not been disrupted, start to finish, even with a flare-up or two from Mamie Crumpton. Was it the new format, or had the stars and planets merely been properly aligned? Whatever the case, Maura Beth felt good about asking all the members for a special favor after discussion of everyone’s novels had been exhausted.
“As of this evening,” she began at the podium with some gravity in her tone, “our new library’s furniture has not arrived. I won’t go into what’s happened because it’s too aggravating for words and won’t be good for my digestion. But suffice it to say that if it does not arrive tomorrow, the carrier has informed us that they will not be delivering on the Fourth of July since it’s a holiday. Therefore, the very real possibility exists that we will have our Grand Opening with just these old, uncomfortable folding chairs we have here for people to sit on if they want to browse and read, or use our new computer terminals. Which, I might add, the patrons of Cherico have been waiting on since the invention of the abacus.”
